No Shame, No Fear (21 page)

“Yesterday. Late. And then today I had news to tell thee, and hurried to the shop, and found thee gone.”

“What news?”

He looked down at me, his face bright with his discovery. “I have found a way for us to be married.”

I felt a surge of hope, of delight. In an instant I saw the London project dropped, the two of us staying together. “How? Has Mary changed her mind?”

“No. It is a priest. I went to see him this morning—”

“A
priest
?” I let go of him and took a step back. “We’d be married in a
steeple-house
?”

“Not in a steeple-house.” He caught my hands. “A room in an inn – or anywhere else we wish. But he’ll marry us without banns. No one need know till it’s done. He could marry us on Mon— second-day.”

“A priest?” I said again. A shadow seemed to have fallen on the day. “I thought – I thought always, as a child, that one day I’d be married in Meeting, before God, and with my friends as witnesses. Not…”

“It’s not what I would wish, either,” said Will, and I saw that the joy of his news had gone out of him, and was sorry. “But God would be there, within us. God is always there. And it
is
marriage, legal and binding, and not to be challenged. And afterwards, we can come before God in our own way, and no harm done.”

“But this secrecy,” I said, and began to walk slowly along the road. “I don’t like it. We should act openly, in the truth.”

“It’s not right, I know.” His face was eager. “But Susanna, think: once we’re married we are free to do as we will! Thou could come to London with me and none to hinder it. Or stay here, and I’d come for thee when thy service was up. No matter what happens we’d be man and wife, and that bond would be stronger than any other, even parent or master. It’s a small wrong, but the end is the same…”

His eyes sought mine, pleading.

It did not seem a small wrong to me – marriage performed by a hireling priest who would come between us and God.

“He will not read the Anglican marriage service if we don’t want it,” Will said. “Only what’s necessary to make it legal. He is accommodating.”

Accommodating. The word did not reassure me.

“Marriage is a holy thing—” I began.

“And dost thou think it would not be holy between us, whatever the means?” He caught hold of me and began to kiss me. “I love thee, Su.”

I kissed him back, but I felt low in spirit; something had been spoiled. He sensed my lack of response, and after a while he let me go and we walked on in silence, no longer touching. My eyes filled with tears which I dashed away with my hand. Will walked a little ahead of me, looking at the ground. I was forced to scamper to keep up with him.

“Art thou angry with me?” I asked.

“No.”

“Thou
seem’st
angry.”

For answer he put an arm around my waist and pulled me close. It was uncomfortable walking like that, but I preferred it to our former separateness. Now and again I glanced at his face. It was shut to me, the eyes downcast. I knew I had hurt him.

I thought: He will go to London soon. And I looked back towards Norton, south-eastwards. It had taken me half a day to reach Norton; another half-day would have brought me only as far as Brentbridge. I tried to imagine the great distance between this home country of ours and the capital. Hundreds of miles – hundreds of miles of fields and woods and winding roads and villages and hamlets and towns, and great cities like Oxford. He will go to London, I thought, and I will never see him again. He’ll be caught up in his new life, make new friends, perhaps meet another girl; and he’ll forget me. If I don’t marry him now, I’ll lose him.

And I thought: After all, he’s right; what does a ceremony matter? It’s the intent behind it that counts. We can go through with it, and afterwards we can make all well again before God and our families and friends. But at least the thing will be done and no one will be able to part us.

“Will?” I said. My voice came out small. “I have decided. I will marry thee.”

He looked at me and gave a little shake of his head. “I don’t want to force thee.”

“Thou dost not. It was a shock – no more. Thou’rt right. It’s the only way. Let’s be wed – on second-day, as thou said.”

“Perhaps we should consider longer.”

“No.” I was anxious now, afraid to delay. “On second-day, in the evening, when I finish work.” I put my arms around him. “Unless thou hast changed thy mind?”

“No,” he said. “I have not.”

We walked on, hand in hand. There were grassy banks on either side of the road, stretches of woodland, hedgerows full of flowers. I remembered my daydream of the field at Long Aston. We were promised to each other now, and had we been in merrier mood we might have stopped and taken advantage of the freedom we had out of doors and felt no shame in it. But our near quarrel had subdued our spirits, and besides, the sun was low in the sky and Mary would be expecting me. We reached the walls of Hemsbury, and dropped hands as we went through the gate and into the town.

One thing came to my mind. Where would we go, on second-day, after we were married? Not to Mary’s house or Will’s father’s.

I was too shy to ask him. But wherever we went, I thought, if I did not return soon after, I’d be missed, and explanations must be made. And when I thought of those explanations I had a sense of unease.

William

I
knew as early as seventh-day morning that something was afoot. My father seemed unusually anxious that I should not go to Meeting next day. Of late he had become resigned to my absence from church and had not tried so hard to prevent me leaving the house on first-days. But now he said, “You’ll come to church tomorrow, Will. I insist on it. To see you knocked about and bleeding as you were last week—”

“That did not happen at the meeting,” I said.

He frowned at the interruption. “We worry about your safety. There may be trouble tomorrow. You could be injured, or arrested.”

I was at once alert. “Is trouble planned? Father? What dost thou know?”

“Do not ‘thou’ me!” he exclaimed; and he used this as an excuse to lecture me and avoid answering my question.

I could gain no more from him, and wondered whether I should warn my friends; and yet they would come to Meeting whether or not they were warned, and what could I tell them?

In the afternoon I visited the priest and arranged that Susanna and I would meet him at the White Hart in Hog Lane at six o’clock on second-day evening. We were committed now, and I entered a state of agitation which took everything else out of my mind. After the ceremony Susanna would be my wife. We would be left alone together in the room at the inn, free to love each other. That was something which, when I imagined it, made me feel both eager and nervous. But there was guilt, too, and unease, caused by Susanna’s misgivings and the secrecy of it all. I tried not to think of the time when we must confess what we had done.

That night I lay awake for hours, and it seemed I had no sooner fallen asleep than I was woken by birdsong and saw that it was almost dawn.

At once a thousand thoughts flew into my mind. Since there was no chance of more sleep, I decided to leave the house before my father woke and tried to prevent me. I rose quietly and washed in last night’s cold water, dressed, and crept downstairs and out the back way.

I went straight to the printer’s, where Nat, yawning, answered my knock. Susanna was in the kitchen, making up the fire. I kneeled beside her and spoke quietly, telling her what I had arranged with the priest.

“Oh, Will!” She turned to me, and I saw in her face the same mixture of emotions that I was feeling. We were like two conspirators, and I jumped up as Mary came in.

“Thou’rt early, Will,” she said.

“Yes.” I told her about my fears that trouble was planned.

“If there is trouble the Lord will prevail,” said Mary. She measured oats into an iron pot. “Porridge? Thou’ll eat with us, I hope?”

“Yes, I thank thee.”

While the porridge cooked we sat in silence. Mary gave the pot an occasional stir, and Susanna poured beer and passed mugs around, but we did not talk more than was necessary, each of us mentally preparing ourselves for whatever was to come.

It came sooner than we had expected. We had eaten and were about to leave for Meeting when we heard a banging on the shop door. We all tensed and glanced at each other.

“Wait here.” Mary went through the print room and into the shop, and I heard her open the door; then came a man’s voice, and the sound of people entering, the scrape of boots and clink of weapons.

Nat hurried after Mary, but in a moment he was back. “The sheriff’s men,” he whispered. “They come to question us and seize copies of the new pamphlet.”

“On first-day?” exclaimed Susanna.

“It’s a ploy, I reckon, to prevent us being at Meeting. Go out through the yard. Thou too, Will. There’s a way along the backs of the houses.”

“But—” I began. I did not want to run and hide if Mary was accused.

“Thou can’t help here. I’ll stay. Go quickly, before they stop thee.”

So we left, Susanna and I, out past the cesspits and middens of the backyards and into a side alley; and from there we ran to Cross Street.

The children were already there, and I caught Tom’s look of relief when he saw us. The gates to the Seven Stars’ yard were still barred, and the children stood in a small but defiant group in the street outside.

We drew together, joining hands for support.

Almost at once a group of youths appeared – the same ones who had attacked us the week before. They began tormenting us, and soon after came the sheriff, with several constables.

The sheriff’s men moved in fast, striking out with their clubs. This time there was no attempt to declare our meeting illegal or to protect us from the youths, who disappeared. The aim was to break up the meeting with violence. The constables forced their way in among us and laid about them with their clubs, striking even the little ones. I caught Susanna to my side and tried to shield her from the blows. The younger children were screaming. I saw Tom struck as he went to protect his sister, Joe and Isaac beaten back against the gates.

Susanna had been standing her ground, but when she saw Isaac attacked she broke from me and ran forward. A constable caught her and threw her down hard on the cobbles. As he went to strike her I flung myself between them – giving her time to scramble to her feet. The blow landed on my back, and a kick brought me to my knees. Two men seized me and hauled me upright, and I saw Susanna also held, and heard Sheriff Danson shouting that we were all under arrest.

He turned on Susanna. “I warned you not to bring these children here again!”

“I brought no one.” She was breathless from her fall, but defiant. “They came of their own free will to worship God.”

“You are the ringleader – and you’ll suffer for it.”

I protested at the unfairness of this. “We have no leader! I am as much to blame as her.”

Danson turned to me, and a look of irritation crossed his face. “Master Heywood.”

I was breathing hard and could feel blood trickling from my nose. “Do not ask me to go home,” I said. “I will not. You must arrest me too. This is an outrage against innocent people, against children—”

“Take them all to Bridewell!” said Danson.

They took even the youngest ones. I could not reach Susanna, but saw her ahead of me, pushed and harried by the constables. No one struggled, and no one showed tears. They took us through back alleys – I think to avoid townsfolk who might be moved to sympathy. Some who did see us cried shame on our guards, but in general people were at church or within doors and the streets were empty.

I saw now that the authorities thought to have broken the meeting once and for all. The youths had given them their excuse to label us riotous and disorderly; the raid on the print works – unheard of on the Lord’s day – had prevented Mary from being here, Mary being the person they found most formidable and difficult to deal with. What was left, they thought, was a clutch of children who could be terrified into submission with beatings and imprisonment.

I had never been inside the Bridewell before. The yard, which contained a stocks and whipping post, was awash with filth: rotting food and the contents of a blocked and overflowing cesspit. As the soldiers handed us over to our jailers I managed to reach Susanna and take her hand. We all tramped through the filth of the yard, watched by the inmates.

Two ragged women cackled at sight of us.

“Here come the Quakers!”

One of them, with a nod towards me, called out to Susanna, “Does he keep his hat on in bed?”

Susanna ignored them and kept hold of my hand. I tried not to let my disgust at our situation show in my face, but must have failed.

“It’s not so bad here,” she said. “Not as bad as the Castlegate. And we will probably be out in the morning.”

I felt ashamed. “I should be comforting
thee
.”

“No. It’s new to thee.”

“I’m glad I am here.”

And I meant it. At last I had forced them to stop treating me like an alderman’s son.

Once inside, we were separated and saw no more of each other. Susanna and the younger children were put to work picking oakum, but Tom and I were sent to join a group of men who were breaking up stones. It was heavy work, and we soon tired, but if we stopped the overseer beat us. We were fed twice that day on gruel and coarse bread, and given a ration of beer. As I worked, I thought: I must learn to endure this; it could be far, far worse. And I remembered how Daniel Kite had been manacled and chained for weeks in a damp, stinking hole.

The day was hard, the night foul with coughings and pukings, mouldy straw and the squeaking of rats. Tom and I huddled together. I thought I’d never sleep, such was my fear and revulsion, but I dozed an hour or so before dawn and woke, stiff, to harsh voices calling us to work.

We were not let out till noon. I caught occasional glimpses of the children, but did not see Susanna and had no chance to seek her out. Then, as the inmates were shuffling off to queue for their bread and beer, we found we were free to go. The jailer jerked a thumb at Tom and me. “You two: out! You’re released.”