The Monmouth Summer (57 page)

"But ... John Spragg said ... "

"Never you mind nothing he said. What I said to him was plain foolishness, no more - any stupid thing that came into my head to get him to save his skin and go for transportation instead of me. Listen to me, Ann - if you'd lain with that Devils' Judge himself to save my life, 'twould have been all the more reason to accept a gift so dearly bought, and not to spurn it."

"Then why
did
you spurn it, father? Why are you here when John Spragg should be?"

"I'm here because of Pride, I see that now. You know … do you remember that night, Ann, when your mother tried to persuade me not to go to war? You came down and sat with us in the kitchen at home - remember?"

"I remember. The night Simon was hurt."

"That's it. Well, when I said I'd go then 'twas not really because of the religion, or the love of the good old cause and the Duke of Monmouth. 'Twas anger at what had happened to Simon, and shame too, because I was in mortal fear of going and I thought folk would scorn me if I did not. There was another war before, but you're too young to remember that. Anyway, this time I went, and I
was
afraid - most terribly afraid, Ann, and thought of running home more than once. You maybe saw that, I don't know ..."

"But that's nothing to feel shame for, father! Everyone must have felt fear, surely?"

"Aye, surely they did!" said Adam fiercely. "But they wouldn't admit to it, none of 'em, because Israel Fuller said the Lord would give His chosen people courage, and so if a man was afraid, he wasn't one of the chosen. 'Tis a lie, Ann, never forget it! There's many as say they're chosen who'm afraid, like our great Pharisee Fuller himself, as you saw! But I believed it, you see, and so I had only my pride to bear me up. Pride that I would not run, no more than they did, nor let any man see the shame of fear in my soul. And I didn't neither, you saw that! I didn't take the pardon when I could, nor did I run from the battle as some did, even that John Spragg whom they think they're to hang today!"

Adam smiled, and a bitter triumph glowed briefly in his face, and then went out.

"And there you see my pride, my dear. For 'twas so hard for me at first to face all the horrors of war, that when I found at last that I could do it, without even being one of God's chosen - for I knew I was not - then I felt I was not worthy of anyone's respect, not even my own, unless I always took the stony path. And the Devil led me on to take that path, whereever it might lead, and I felt better doing it. So I became a foolish martyr to nothing better than my own pride, and never thought, till yesterday, of the hurt it might do to others, and the little it was gaining me."

His voice died away to a whisper, as though he had no more to say.

"You chose to die because you were afraid to lose people's respect?"

"And my own. I did not respect myself really, for the life I lived."

"But why, father? Everyone respects you - in the village, in the family. You're one of the best respected men I know."

"But I didn't deserve that respect. I knew myself better ..."

And he would perhaps have told her the secret then, that no-one knew except he and his long-dead brother, but the hubbub outside joined that downstairs, and he knew he had no time. Ann stood between him and the door.

"They shan't take you, father! They can't - you're the wrong man!"

"Ann, dear, do you think that'll stop this judge? That's what your mother's gone to say, but do you think for one moment he'll listen? I chose to die - it was proud and wilful of me but I must face it now!"

He tried to go past her but she stood in his way.

"I shan't let them touch you! They shall kill me first!"

"No!" He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him, his dark eyes burning into her. "Listen to me, Annie. 'Tis hard enough for me to face, don't make it any harder by standing in the way. I don't want to see no-one hurt but me!" He heard footsteps on the stairs and crushed her tightly to him, his thin arms like hoops of steel across her back. "Oh Ann, I do love you, my dear. Never forget it! Tell your mother I do love you all ... now let me go!"

The key turned in the lock and the officer came in with the sergeant and another man.

"Right, Spragg or Carter, whoever you are - that's it. Your time has come. Your friend Clegg's waiting downstairs to go with you."

Adam pushed Ann firmly aside and stepped forward.

"Bind his arms."

"There's no need for that. I shan't run."

"'Tis the rule. You're to be bound on a hurdle, man. Turn around." The sergeant pushed him roughly round and dragged his arms behind him. Adam saw his daughter watching from the corner, her eyes very big in her pale face, her hands clenched stiffly at her sides so as not to grab him from them, and he thought how much she was still like the little girl who had come in to him with nightmares in the dark. He tried to smile.

"Don't come, my dear. I don't want you to see it."

"I love you, father!"

And then when he was gone she suddenly remembered who the officer was - Cornet Smythe, who had brought a message to Robert once - and she followed him all along the street, pleading with him openly to let her father live because of Robert Pole, Robert Pole who was the officer's friend and who had promised her he should not die! Until at last he pushed her contemptuously aside as other men had pushed aside her mother and the wife of William Clegg.

She went to watch, despite what Adam had said, and what she saw remained with her all her life, as the King had intended it should. There is little dignity in a death like that, either for those who die or those who watch, and none at all for those who do the killing.

"I
JUST want to be let alone!"

"Then where is the help in that to me?" Mary Carter glared at her daughter across the great table in the kitchen, while little Oliver, Sarah and Rachel watched fearfully. Ann stood by the door, her old brown cloak over one shoulder. She no longer noticed how tired her mother was, how her shoulders were bowed, or the lines in the face under the newly-white hair. Or rather, she felt these things only as an unbearable oppression, a reproach upon herself.

"Mother, there are Rachel and Sarah still here. I have cooked and cleaned and cared for Oliver all morning, as I did all day yesterday and all the days before that since ... and in truth there is no
need
for me to be here this afternoon. There is only Oliver, and I shall be back later ..."

"You have time enough to spend with Ruth Spragg! Is that where you are going?"

It was true that Ann had spent several afternoons with Ruth in the last few months. It was hardly a relaxation - the poor woman was driven half distracted trying to cope with four small children and the thought of her husband, cramped and chained below decks on the stormy seas. There were frequent tears and trouble in that house too. But at least none of it pointed at Ann.

"Ruth has troubles - you know that, mother. It is good for her to talk."

"Do you not think
I
have troubles and need to talk? But my own daughter does not want to listen!"

"Mother, I
do
listen to you. But it is always the same thing - that I should marry Tom, which I cannot do. I do not want to hear it any more!"

"Ann, your father and I brought you up in the bosom of the congregation as a daughter who should honour and respect her parents, and bring honour and respect to them. One who should be married by now, not one who ... "

"Mother, I do love and honour you, just as I will always love and honour my father, until the day I die.
He
had no harsh words for me, whatever I had done! But now I just need to be alone for a while, to think and ... to pray, perhaps."

"It is not what your father would have wanted."

"My father!"
Ann felt the blood drain from her face, and for a moment her knees shook. She caught hold of the doorpost to steady her. She saw little Oliver's big eyes watching her. It was not just the effect of her mother's words - her body was betraying her. "Oh mother, you cannot ... how can anyone say what ... "

"Would your father have wanted you to be pointed at in the village as a disgrace to us all? Someone who begged for his life with the name of a libertine on her lips? Someone who could have a house and husband of her own instead of ..."

"Mother, I cannot listen to you. I ..."

"Ann, if you will not listen to me, think of what your brother Simon would say. He is the head of the family now. He at least is a godly boy, and ... "

Ann shook her head furiously, and put her cloak on. It had been Simon who had found that she had been taking food to Nicolas Thompson in his hiding place in the woods, Simon who had suggested that it would be better if Israel Fuller did it. Israel had agreed, saying, so she had heard, that such matters were better undertaken by men of God than 'self-confessed whores'.

"Mother, Simon is not here, and he is only a boy like Tom, who has seen and knows nothing beyond what he hears from cowards and turncoats like Israel Fuller! Would you have me marry into that clan of prating hypocrites? Cowards who betrayed father and our cause? It is they who should be pointed at, not me!"

Mary Carter stared at her eldest daughter hopelessly, without understanding. For a moment it seemed that there was a ghost standing there in front of her, her husband come home to tell her he had chosen to die, for reasons which made no sense, no sense at all.

"Ann, what is this cause to me? Was it not that which killed your father, and broke our family? At least Tom and Israel Fuller are alive! They did not die in their stubbornness! Tom can give you a new life, a new start ..."

"Mother, I cannot listen to you. I am going out!"

Ann turned, went out of the door, and up the street. She felt weak, still shaking with the argument, and had to lean for a moment against a wall on the corner. It was not the first time she had felt like this; such scenes were draining her, like a wound that would not stop bleeding. And she needed all her strength, all her energy now.

As she paused, she heard a small voice behind her.

"Ann! Ann! Come back! Let me come!" The tiny figure of her two-year-old brother was plodding determinedly up the street after her, tears running down his face.

"No! Oliver, go home!" She could not bear any more of this, not now. Fiercely, she turned and went on up the steet, ignoring the small cries behind her.

But they did not go away. Several women turned and looked at her, and at the edge of the village she had to turn and stop, out of sheer pity and embarrassment. She sat down on the parapet of the bridge, and waited for him to plod up to her. He was calling out as he came.

"Ann! I come. I want to come too. Don't like mother! Want to walk with you, see father."

She picked up the grubby, tear-streaked little boy and wiped his face with the edge of her apron.

"Oliver, I'm not going to see father. No-one can see father now. Father's dead - he's with Jesus and the saints."

"He's not! Bad men killed him, not saints. I want him come back, like Jesus did! I
want to go with you, see father!
"

"Nollie, my love, I'm not going to see father, truly. I'm going to be alone, that's all. But I'll tell you a secret, if you're very, very good. If you go to my room, very quietly, and look in the drawer by the bed, you'll find a little wooden cross that father gave me when I was young. If you get on your knees, close your eyes to pray and hold it very, very tight, sometimes you can see father talking to you, in his old, kind voice, like he used to have when he came home from his travels. Only you have to go alone, Oliver, and pray very hard. Do you think you can do that?"

"I don't know. Will you come with me?" He had stopped crying, and looked up at her trustingly.

"No, Nollie. You have to go alone." She hated herself, but she had to get away. And he would come to no harm from it, surely.

"Will he talk to me?"

"Perhaps. That's what I do, when I want to talk to father. But don't tell mother."

"All right." He got down from her knee and walked back into the village. At the corner of the street he turned and waved happily. She thought how marvellous it was that two-year-olds could change so suddenly from utter grief to contentment, or hope. If only I could do that, she thought. But then, that is what I have come away for, partly. Even if nothing comes of the meeting, I have this time alone now, free for myself. I must use it to be happy, to be calm again.

She walked away, alone through the lanes, towards Colyton Hill. This meeting was the other reason for going out, the one her mother did not know about. She had seen Robert only once since her father's death, on the road to Shute, and had told him shortly what had happened. He had not known about it, because he had been taking a party of prisoners east to Weymouth at the time. She had been too shocked to speak at length, or know what she felt towards him, and had not thought she would see him again. But two days ago, in the market-place, the wife of a groom of the Pole's had pressed a note into her hand in the market-place, and the memory of his love had returned to her like a false spring in midwinter, lighting up the bleakness of the life that oppressed her. So today she was coming to the hilltop as the message had said, though she hardly thought he would want her now.

She walked steadily away from the village, a stubborn, windblown figure in the muddy lanes, and came out at last onto Colyton Hill, where she had met Robert in those warm days of early summer.

It was October now, and a north-west wind was blowing the leaves from the trees. Some of them sailed over Ann's head as she waited, fluttering down on the field in front of her as she gazed south-east across the estuary to the sea, and she thought how like the brown beech leaves were to the little sails she could see beating their way steadily westwards towards Beer. She thought how she loved the view from here, even without its memories; the wide sweep of the valley below her to the estuary, and the little village and church of Axmouth nestling below the long ridge of hills beyond. She watched the cloud shadows chase each other, turning the hills from summer green to gloomy olive, and the seas from their deep blues and greens to a stormy winter grey, flecked with fleeting splashes of white spray where the waves were cuffed by the wind.