Andrew Swanston - The King's Exile

An hour later, two bulging sacks slung over his shoulders, Thomas started for home. His eyes stinging from the sweat of his brow, his hands blistered from digging and his feet aching, he decided first to sit on the little beach for a while. It was deserted but, to his surprise, the water was not. ‘Patrick,’ he called, ‘is that you?’

‘Good day, Thomas. I thought I’d have a quick bath before the market.’ Patrick emerged from the water, shook himself like a dog, and strode up the beach. He wore only a torn pair of old breeches which barely reached his knees. ‘Are you bathing today?’ he asked. Thomas did not reply. He was lost in thought, trying to remember who Patrick reminded him of. It must have been a figure in a painting or an illustration in a book but he could not place it. Patrick tried again. ‘Thomas, are you well?’

‘What? Oh, quite well, thank you. What did you say?’

‘I asked if you were going to bathe today.’

‘No, Patrick, I think not. It’s been a tiring day.’

‘Then let’s sit a while.’ When they had settled under the palm tree, Patrick said, ‘I have spoken to Adam Lyte about you and he has promised to give the matter thought. He would like to help but he is conscious of his position in the Assembly. He is not a man to rush into decisions.’

‘I shall keep hoping.’

‘Good. Never lose hope. And how are the lovely brutes? I hear that the turkey and shoat dinner was not a complete success.’

Thomas shrugged. ‘They’re repulsive, Patrick. Repulsive, filthy, brutal and many other things. The dinner was excellent but the conversation less so.’

‘If you say so,’ laughed Patrick. ‘How did a country as civilized as England manage to turn out those two brutes?’

‘England civilized? With the king imprisoned, cousin killing cousin and innocent booksellers sent here on trumped-up charges and without trial? While England burns, I daresay there are parts of Africa more civilized.’

‘Perhaps there are. Perhaps there are places where all laws are just, no one breaks them, everyone is equal, healthy and prosperous and there are no arguments ever. Not here, though.’

They were silent for a while, until Thomas asked suddenly, ‘Did you know that in England Parliament was so frightened of witchcraft that it appointed a man named Hopkins to search out witches? A man to find witches, for the love of God. Sixteen and a half centuries after the birth of Christ and we’re looking for witches. They find an old widow who lives on charity and can’t defend herself and do you know how they prove she’s a witch? If she makes a mistake reciting the Lord’s Prayer or if she has some kind of mark on her — the Devil’s Mark, they call it — or if she doesn’t drown when they tie her up and throw her in the river, she must be a witch. So they hang her or burn her. It defies belief.’

‘And if she does drown? Are they murderers?’

‘I think they are but the law says otherwise. It’s hardly the justice of a civilized society. Based on superstition and benefiting no one.’

‘And yet you want to return there.’

‘Only because my family are there. I’d want to go anywhere they were, however uncivilized.’

‘How old are your nieces now?’

‘Polly is ten and Lucy eight. I miss them beyond words and I think of them every day. It’s summer in England. They should be playing in the meadow, paddling in the stream, collecting flowers, but they could be anywhere. They have only a little money and Margaret might have been forced to leave the house and move away.’

‘You’ll see them again, my friend, civilized society or not. Never doubt it. Now, I’ve got another book for you and a pair of tallow candles. They’re not very big but you’ll get some light from them.’

‘Thank you, Patrick. What’s the book?’

‘It’s a book of poems by a Lady Mary Wroth. Do you know her?’

‘I do. I once suggested to a dear friend that she follow Lady Wroth’s example and write poetry.’ Thomas took the small leather-bound volume from Patrick and examined it. ‘Thank you, I’ll return it next week if I survive.’

‘You’ll survive, Thomas. You have a survivor’s look about you.’

‘How does a survivor look?’

‘He has something to go home to. Most haven’t. It shows in the eyes.’

‘I hope you’re right. Thank you for Lady Wroth. She’ll make a change from Henry More.’

‘Thomas, your sacks look heavy. Can I help you up the hill with them?’

‘Thank you.’

The climb was easier as much for Patrick’s company as for his pony carrying Thomas’s sacks. ‘I envy your knowledge, Thomas,’ remarked Patrick as they walked.

Thomas laughed. ‘I fear it is very slight.’

‘My mother speaks of an elder of her village who was never short of wise advice for anyone who cared to listen. He liked to explain the importance of knowledge. In the forest it was everything. What to eat and what to leave alone, how to tell where you were, what were the signs of danger. The means of survival. Opinions were dangerous unless they were based on knowledge.’

‘He sounds very like an ancient Greek philosopher named Socrates. Have you heard of him?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘He was a strange man but he prized knowledge above all else. He said it came from rational thought and could be supported in argument. Mere opinion could not. Could your village elder have read his works, do you think?’

‘An interesting idea,’ laughed Patrick, ‘though unlikely.’

When they reached the path to the brutes’ house Patrick asked if they should take the sacks in. ‘Better not,’ replied Thomas. ‘If the brutes see you they might kill both of us and eat your pony.’

‘Very well. Keep hoping, Thomas. I will speak to Mr Lyte again.’

‘Thank you. Go well, Patrick.’

Thomas took the sacks straight to the kitchen. The chance meeting with Patrick had cheered him but he was weary and sat down to catch his breath. Before long, however, and unable still to remember the subject of the painting, he thought he would give the new privy a quick try before the brutes appeared.

He was about to do so when they did. ‘Go and fill in the old privy before we shove you down it,’ snarled John Gibbes. Thomas picked up the shovel. And then he remembered. It was Odysseus, after yet another narrow escape. The illustration was in a children’s edition of Homer’s Odyssey . It used to make him laugh. Shipwrecked, starving, naked, far from home, yet managing against everything the capricious gods could throw at him to look happy and heroic. He’d better not tell Patrick; he might think the heat had boiled what was left of Thomas’s brain.

Thomas carried on doing as he was bidden, cooking when required, keeping the ledgers neatly and accurately, taking the abuse, giving them no excuse for the whip. Not that they needed an excuse; the terrible thing might appear at any moment. And the evening he saw them coming up the path towards the hut, he thought that moment had come. A bottle in one hand and his whip in the other, Samuel looked murderous.

John, close behind and also carrying a bottle, pushed past his brother, grabbed Thomas by his neck and hissed at him through black fangs. ‘We’re going out, Hill, and we don’t want to see you when we get back. If we do, you’ll taste this again. Stay here and keep out of our way. Is that clear?’

Again, Thomas nodded. Gibbes reached out and smashed the bottle he was holding against the hut. He held it a few inches from Thomas’s eyes. ‘And you’ll get this if we so much as hear you fart.’

Relieved at having escaped the whip or worse, Thomas watched them swagger back to the house. He had no idea what they were planning to do but being seen or heard when they returned would probably not be a good idea. He would stay in his hut and use his last stump of candle to read Lady Wroth until he fell asleep.