Believe or Die Page 3

  “Our only recourse say you? You have had your mind addled by Puritans and fanatics, but hold, are they not the same thing, merely opposite sides of the same coin? Is there even a pinch of difference between what the Puritans preach and the rabble-rousers advocate?”

  “And what of the King’s cronies? Royalist gangs are out abroad as well, nigh to murdering any honest man who dares to question the King’s edicts.”

  “It is not our place to query His Majesty.”

  “No, it is Parliament’s. And what did the King do when they attempted to question him? Question him on behalf of his loyal subjects? He did away with them! I tell you Dick, we, the people, we must do something!”

  “Aye then, so we will. We will try and stop this insanity consuming our community. Think you on this. You did not elect those men to Parliament, those that you now feel so aggrieved for. No more did I have a say in the choosing of those who advise the King. We must try and reason with our friends and neighbours hereabouts and keep the pestilence of strife away. We are sliding down a slippery slope and only by helping each other may we arrest our descent. You must reason with the Roundhead and Puritan supporters, I must speak with the Loyalists and the tavern hotheads. We must constrain this lunacy before it is too late, we must make all see reason. Are you in agreement?”

  “Aye, well, for the sake of our friendship, I will try. Nay, for the sake of all of us, I will truly try.”

  But the time for reason had passed. The time for discussion and debate was gone.

  Christopher Pitkin and his son finished their tankards. The elder man was flushed with pride and ale. Wil kept up a façade of equal jollity but inside he was churning, wondering if he would ever find the courage to tell his father what was on his mind.

  “May the Lord forgive my vanity, but I must look on it one more time this night,” said Christopher.

  Wil knew his father spoke of the pale and smiled indulgently.

  “Do so then aged one,” he laughed, “I will see you at home directly.”

  “Ah, you wish to call upon the lovely Joanna I’ll wager. Very well, but remember we must be up at cockcrow.”

  “I’ll remember slave driver ”

  They left The Swan and parted company at the crossroads, Christopher going to the church of St Martin, Wil to call on his intended.

  Joanna’s mother permitted Wil to walk her to the pond, no further for they would then have been out of sight to the sharp-eyed widow. There they sat making vague, largely impossible plans for their future together, but mainly just enjoying each other’s company. The evening drew on and both knew that Joanna must now be escorted home. They rose from the wall upon which they’d been seated and stood holding hands their eyes locked upon each other. Then something, seen over Wil’s shoulder, distracted Joanna.

  “Wil. Did you say your father was at the church?”

  “Aye. He’ll be sitting there just looking at his work, like as not, he’ll be there a while.”

  “What are all the torches for?”

  “Torches?” puzzled Wil turning sharply around.

  Sure enough, lights were to be seen, lights aplenty. Almost immediately shouting came to his ears.

  “Get you home girl, NOW!” he cried propelling Joanna homewards while he himself set out at a run towards the church.

  He burst through the door to find a mob ransacking and wrecking the church. Statues were being smashed, torches put to the drapes and tapestries. His father was desperately battling with three or more men who were attacking the pale with axes and billhooks. Wil threw himself at them and a furious melee ensued, combat made more surreal by the flickering light of the now burning hangings within the church. At length the ruffians fled leaving the bleeding and battered Pitkins on the floor. Momentarily unconscious, Wil came round to find St Martin’s ablaze and choked with acrid, impenetrable smoke. He grabbed his father and half carried, half dragged him out of the building. A hasty bucket chain was being organised, people were screaming, dogs barking. Christopher slipped down to lay propped against a wall spluttering and coughing, his lungs full of mucus and smoke. He waved Wil away impatiently to assist with the fire fighting, tears streaming down his face as he tried to take in what the mob had done. It took the best part of two hours to control the blaze; clearly the instigators had come armed with pitch to aid their torches. At length Wil stood in what was left of the centre aisle, wet, scorched and bloody, as the preacher scrabbled about in the ruins of his church. The man was sobbing quietly and coughing frequently as he tried to salvage something, ANYTHING, from the chaos. Wil heard a rasping sound behind him and turned to see his father, eyes wide open and mouth agape in dumbstruck horror. His son reached out to support him but was pushed aside. Christopher Pitkin walked on unsteady legs to where the pale had stood so proudly. He shook his head disbelievingly. There was nothing left, it had been smashed to matchwood then burned to cinders. He held his head in his hands and groaned. Wil moved once more towards him, unsure what to do or say. Then Christopher gasped. He held his left arm briefly then gasped again and both his hands went to his chest. Then, with a sudden intake of breath, he collapsed to the floor. Wil rushed to his side, held him, and tried to speak to him to gain some kind of response. But it was to no avail. Christopher Pitkin was dead, killed by those opponents of the King as surely as if they had run a sword through him. Only a few short hours ago, these had been the very people he had been considering siding with. And now?

  Christopher Pitkin was buried two days later in the Churchyard of the still smouldering St Martin’s. Wil felt alternating waves of anger and numbness sweeping over him. Joanna tried her best to comfort him but what he really needed was to talk, and to talk to Richard Mead in particular. But Richard was away on an errand for his father, first to Reading and then to Beaconsfield on the return journey, and thus would know nothing of the tragic events that had transpired.

  The funeral over, Wil wandered alone towards the river, not yet ready to return to an empty cottage. There he was met by a large group of men, their hats off as a mark of respect.

  “We must see that retribution is done,” stated Liddle, their apparent leader. His companions nodded forcefully in agreement.

  “Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord,” replied Wil, “But in his absence, I am inclined to agree with you. Know you who was responsible for this sorry affair?”

  “There is a nest of their kind meeting in Harefield this very day. It must be them, I have heard of no other Parliamentarian vermin in the district.”

  “I thought those in Harefield were Puritans, Quakers or some such?” said one of the others.

  “Tis no matter, they are all one in the same,” sneered Liddle.

  “So be it,” hissed Wil. “I wish Richard was here!” he said to himself. But Richard was still in Reading no doubt, or maybe Beaconsfield.

  The mob who had actually wrecked and burned the church had fled in the opposite direction and were nowhere near the innocent Quaker meeting. And Richard Mead was not in Reading. Neither was he in Beaconsfield. He was on his way to Harefield.

  The angry vigilantes of Ruislip trudged along the road, cut through the woods, carefully skirting the domain of one Mad Bess, and so cut across the fields towards Harefield. The congregation of the Providence Hall were just exiting their place of worship when the mob attacked. It mattered not that these people were not responsible for the tragedy at St Martin’s, they looked similar. Boys and young men with short hair, older men in dark sombre clothes and large brimmed hats, women in plain garb and their heads covered with close white bonnets. And there before the mob, clearly indisputable evidence. A preacher, the same preacher who had been haranguing folk in Ruislip, stood raving and ranting, waving his Bible and gesticulating furiously. Obviously, this madman was trying to instigate yet more trouble. In fact, the Puritan was merely trying to persuade the local, extremely moderate, non- conformists and a single Quaker family of the veracity of his beliefs. Animated he may have been, sure of his cause t
o the point of blindness no doubt, but he was innocent. So too were his audience. But the madness was upon the mob and they fell upon the assembled folk. The Meeting Hall was ransacked, heads were broken, innocents beaten to the ground.

  Flames began rising from the hall and the people of Harefield fought back with staves, sticks and hoes. The Quakers pleaded for all to desist, the preacher lay sprawled in a bloody heap on the ground. Someone ran to alert the local magistrate who was dining nearby in the Rose and Crown with a well-connected friend, Lord Ashworth.

  The anger was upon Wil and he lay about him with a stave. A young man, about a year or two younger than Wil aimed a wild punch at him. It missed hopelessly and Wil kicked him in the groin. As the youth went down Wil swung the stave at his head. Someone dived on Wil’s back sinking nails into his eyes and teeth into his neck. He swung violently around flinging off his assailant. Blood and sweat blinded him and all he could vaguely make out was a slumped form on the ground. The stave rose and fell repeatedly, seemingly of its own volition. Then he was grabbed from behind and his arms roughly pinioned behind him.

  “Wil! For the love of God cease! Look what you have done!” screamed Liddle in his ear.

  Wil looked wildly around him as sanity slowly returned. He looked down at the figure he had been beating. It wasn’t the youth he’d fought earlier, who was even now scuttling away. Nor was it any other man. It was a woman, a young woman. Wil’s jaw dropped agape. Someone screamed. All the warring parties suddenly ceased their fighting and stood back aghast. Wil dropped to his knees, tentatively reached out a hand only to withdraw it immediately. The woman was dead.

  “Run Wil!” yelled Liddle “Run!”

  Immediately the mob from Ruislip turned and took to their heels dragging the uncomprehending Wil with them.

  He blubbered and sobbed all the way back across the fields and hills. He hadn’t meant to do it. Oh God, what had he done?

  “I will be hung and I deserve it, as God is my witness, I deserve it!” he wailed.

  Liddle grabbed him and shook him violently.

  “You must run boy! Run, for you do not yet know the half of it! Did you not recognise the wench?”

  Wil frowned.

  “No, I never saw her face. I … No, I don’t know who she was!”

  “Her name was Mary Thornhill, Wil. Do you mind her now?”

  Wil’s whole body seemed to sag and a tremendous pain grabbed his chest. He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Aye boy,” said Liddle quietly. “Mary Thornhill. Dick Mead’s sweetheart.”

  “I must go to him, I must explain. I must … !”

  “You must flee boy! That is what you must do!”

  Off they set again stumbling through the woods, Mad Bess now the least of their worries, and running like the Devil himself was pursuing them.

  Richard Mead clip-clopped bareback along the lane enjoying the day and looking forward to a brief dalliance with Mary later. He’d hoped to be home much earlier as his father’s business in Reading was shortly concluded, but the purchase of two horses in Beaconsfield had taken much longer than anticipated. The man he’d been tasked to trade with had been roaring drunk for almost the entire first day, then ill and reluctant to deal on the second. Still, all was well now. His father would not begrudge him a brief visit to Harefield. He had just dismounted to pass water when, through a break in the trees, he spotted a dozen or more riders hallooing and galloping wildly across the fields. He thought it strange. Where was the quarry? Where the fox or deer? Very odd. He remounted and plodded on. After a while, he detected the smell of burning, faint, but there nonetheless. Apprehension began building in him and he increased his pace. Entering Harefield he was immediately struck by the apparent lack of people, but as he drew nearer into the village, he could make out a crowd a little way ahead. As he approached, a couple of men turned in his direction then immediately turned back whispering furiously to those around them. The whispering spread, accompanied by much nudging and craning of necks in his direction. As if by magic, a path opened up before him and it appeared to be steering him towards something. Dick halted and slid off the horse handing the halter to a young lad. He walked slowly forwards glancing this way and that. What was wrong, why was everyone looking at him only to immediately look away again. He continued on and the smell of burning became more acute, then he saw the smoking remains of the Providence Meeting Hall. Women were sobbing, men looked grim, children cowered behind their parents. A young man stepped forward, a youth, little more than a boy really, Nicholas, Mary’s brother. His face was covered in soot and charcoal, in grime and blood, and … tears. Without a word, he took Dick gently by the arm and drew him off to one side to where Mary’s mother and father stood clinging to each other. They spotted Dick and Mary’s mother rushed over and hugged him tightly. Father removed his hat, an unheard of event, and dabbed at his eyes with his neck cloth. On the ground by their feet lay a body covered in a worn sheet. With trembling hands Dick knelt, uncovered the corpse, and looked upon the lifeless form of his beloved.

  Time seemed to dissolve around him for a while. At length some kind of consciousness returned; consciousness, but not understanding. They told him what had transpired. He looked blankly at them. So they told him again, and yet a third time before it sank in and he finally believed them. Mary had been killed by Wil Pitkin.

  A short distance away, other miseries were unfolding. Lord Ashworth was an obese, bigoted bully of a man. He and his ‘Gentlemen friends’ had been invited to hunt and then dine with the local magistrate in an effort by the latter to curry favour. But nothing had they raised on the hunt and dinner was disappointing to say the least.

  Ashworth was bored to distraction and wanted nothing more than to return to Oxford as soon as possible. Then came an unexpected diversion: a riot in the village! How splendid! The magistrate implored Ashworth to take his retinue, wealthy, dissolute young thugs for the main part, and restore order. Perhaps, there would be some worthwhile hunting after all.

  Richard was lumbering down the lane to Ruislip when he spied the horsemen again. They were some distance in front of him and thus did not see him. Fine horses, garish fashionable clothes – Gentlemen! Yet they appeared to have come from the direction of his home, why? Torn between vengeance and concern for his family, the latter prevailed and he angled off the lane towards the homestead. On arriving in their yard, he found his father slumped on the ground being supported by his mother who was dabbing frantically at a deep and frothing chest wound.

  “They were looking for rioters they said,” wailed mother. “When he said he didn’t know what they were talking about, one of them called him impudent and ran him through! Then they rode right over him Richard, they rode right over the top of him!

  So much for the King’s peace, when his followers treat his Majesty’s subjects so!”

  “I’ll get help,” cried Dick leaping to horse again and urging the reluctant beast off towards the village and the nearest thing Ruislip possessed to a doctor. Approaching the hamlet, the horse stumbled and Dick toppled off. Leaving the breathless nag, he ran on his mind in turmoil. It was lunacy, sheer lunacy! Less than a day ago, he had been a follower of the King, now he wanted to kill anyone even remotely in favour of Charles. He wanted to kill those foppish dandies who had so harmed his father. But most of all he wanted to kill Wil Pikin, his lifelong friend and supporter of Parliament. What did that now make him, Dick Mead? It was insanity writ large! Then Dick arrived at the village and found real madness.

  In the centre of Ruislip, all manner of bedlam seemed afoot. Lord Ashworth and his cronies were not the only riders abroad that day. News of the sacking of St Martin’s Church had reached the ears of one Jonathan Ketch, an avid supporter of Parliament who had been visiting nearby Eastcote House to sup with his friends, the Varneys. He had been in the area in the hope of recruiting men, preferably potential officers, for the London Trained Bands - the only even vaguely military formations, apart from the King’s l
oyal Regiments within a day’s march of the capital. With each passing day, and with each new example of King Charles’ intransigence, the London Trained Bands were leaning more and more to Parliament’s persuasive point of view. Talk of a church being ransacked interested Ketch who had six armed followers with him in case of ‘banditry’. One thing Ketch despised was lack of order and lawlessness. Apart from which, such behaviour, be it done in the name of Parliament or simply as a reaction against the King’s policies, would hamper Ketch’s plans. And Ketch had many a scheme percolating in his mind. No mindless yokels were going to disrupt his plans with their own petty activities. Oh no, the destruction Ketch was anticipating had to be fully endorsed and legal. He would put a stop to this rustic nonsense forthwith. To Ruislip then, and at the gallop.

  Lord Ashworth’s ‘Gentlemen’ had rounded up all the men they could find to hand in the village. This included Wil and Liddle. The intention of his Lordship was to hang a few by way of example. Though they had initially been given the name of ‘Wil Pitkin’, no one now could remember it, nobody knew what he looked like, and the angry populace of Ruislip were far too busy arguing amongst themselves to be of any help. Ashworth was furious; he would not tolerate being ignored by this rabble. He would pick a couple of the most vociferous from the mob and string them up directly, whoever they were.

  “In the name of the King … !” he began.

  “By what right do you choose to dispense justice my Lord?” came a harsh voice.

  All faces turned to see the previously unnoticed newcomers. Seven men, darkly clothed, well mounted and with hands on their rapiers.

  “By the request of the magistrate and the authority of my station,” preened Ashworth.

  His cronies nudged their mounts forward. Those who had dismounted to bully the villagers quickly regained their saddles and followed suit. Most of these worthies were drunk and his Lordship scowled to see a few discretely disappear up the lane.