A Crowning Mercy (37 page)

Ebenezer nodded. 'The Presentment first, then the Grand Jury.'

'Exactly.' Sir Grenville pushed a piece of paper over the table. 'See this man, Caleb Higbed. He's a good lawyer, he'll do it all. Good! Good!'

The affable mood had lasted. Victory was Sir Grenville's, and now Lazen Castle was his too. He had acquired much land in the last year, yet nothing to compare with this estate. The guns had knocked it about more than he cared, but the New House was splendidly undamaged. Soon, he thought, he might retire, and he could think of few places more fitting for him than this.

Retirement was a possibility, but only after his cause was victorious. That victory had come suddenly, splendidly nearer. News had arrived from the north of England, and the news was of a great victory by Parliament and the Scots over the Royalist forces. If the wind was turning against the King, then nowhere did it blow more cruel and cold than over bleak Marston Moor. A great victory which had loosed the north from the King would lead soon, Sir Grenville knew, to the fall of York, and meant that the kingdom of Charles was shrinking fast.

Victory, rest, and then the Covenant to support him in his old age. Sir Grenville smiled as he walked into the house, looking with satisfaction at the great marble staircase. He was a rich man now, as he had been since the Covenant's founding, yet he still needed the Covenant's money. The income was so huge, so unimaginably large, that no amount of English land could replace it with rents. Two seals had given him the safety of the Covenant, and though he must share the monies with Ebenezer, he would, as he ever had, make sure that Ebenezer never knew the full income. He looked at Colonel Fuller. 'Is the family gone?'

'No, Sir Grenville. I don't think they expected you this soon.'

Sir Grenville chuckled. He hauled on the marble banisters, pulling his grotesque body up the stairs. His cherubically curled white hair was tipped backwards so he could look at the plasterwork. 'Italian, Colonel!'

'Sir Grenville?'

'Italian work, the plaster. Very fine, very fine!'

'Yes, sir.' Colonel Fuller would happily have let his men destroy the plasterwork with their firearms, but Sir Grenville had given him careful orders.

Sir Grenville Cony paused on the landing halfway up the stairs. He was in an excellent mood. He glanced down to where his secretary and his personal guard followed. 'I should marry, John! Lazen Castle needs a mistress, yes?' He laughed.

John Morse, who knew his master's views on women better than most, stopped in surprise. 'Marry?'

'That worries you, eh?' Sir Grenville laughed. 'There's an unmarried daughter to the house, isn't there, Colonel?'

'Yes, sir. Caroline.'

'Do you think she'd have me?' Sir Grenville barked with laughter. His men had never seen him in such high spirits. 'Never mind! Never mind! Who needs a penniless wife?'

The men on the staircase laughed.

Sir Grenville waved upwards. 'On, on!
Veni, vidi, vici!'

Colonel Fuller, who, more than Sir Grenville, had come, seen, and conquered Lazen Castle, went ahead of his patron and opened the long gallery door.

'Sir Grenville?'

'Ah! The gallery. I have heard so much of it.' He walked in. 'Who are you?'

Lady Margaret, sewing in a window seat, frowned at the interruption. 'Cony?'

Sir Grenville chuckled. 'You recognise me. The price of fame. I suppose you are Lady Margaret Lazender? Is it not customary to rise when the master of the house enters a room?'

Lady Margaret, who had seen the frog-like face of Sir Grenville in the garden, and who had made herself sit calmly in the window with her work, did not reply. She put a careful stitch into the laurel wreath she was embroidering about the crown that decorated the curtain square.

'Sir Grenville?' The Earl of Fleet, waiting further down the room, came forward.

'My Lord! I am surprised to find you here.'

'This is my wife's childhood home, Sir Grenville.'

'Of course! Of course!' Sir Grenville peered up at the plasterwork. 'Oh, very good! Most excellent.' He turned suddenly back to Fleet. 'My Lord! You must be overjoyed with the news from the north? A most excellent providence of God.'

Lady Margaret sniffed. The Earl of Fleet nodded. 'Indeed, sir.'

Sir Grenville laughed. He strutted into the room, looking at the decorations. 'God is indeed blessing our cause, my Lord. Blessing it richly!' He stopped in front of the fireplace, turning to face the room.
'I
was delayed in my arrival. I thought it expedient to visit Essex. He misses you, my Lord.'

The Earl of Fleet had been forced to turn round as Cony passed him. 'I will return to my duties soon, Sir Grenville.'

'I never doubted it, my Lord, I never doubted it. May I ask what happy accident finds you in my house?'

The Earl of Fleet frowned. He hardly knew Sir Grenville Cony, though the name was familiar to him. He knew Sir Grenville was now on the Committee of Both Kingdoms, the committee of English and Scots that effectively ruled wherever the King did not. The Earl was in some awe of this small, gross man. Sir Grenville represented power, and a power that was conquering the land. 'I came, sir, for my mother-in-law.'

'You came for her? Why is she still here?'

Lady Margaret had her back to Cony. She did not turn round.

The Earl frowned again. 'Her son is ill, Sir Grenville.'

'Ill?'

'Wounded.'

'Ah! You mean the whelp was fighting against us, my Lord!' Sir Grenville shook his head. 'He is a prisoner, I suppose?'

Colonel Fuller spoke from the door. 'He's too ill, sir, to be a prisoner.'

Sir Grenville Cony smiled. He had looked forward to this moment. He had delayed it some days, going first to see the Earl of Essex who led an army that was trying to clear the west of Royalist troops. Now, that chore done, Sir Grenville was prepared to enjoy himself. A week at Lazen was a pleasant prospect, time to raise the rents and tally up the wealth of this new property. His frog-like eyes were wide on the Earl of Fleet. 'Is this a hospice, my Lord? Am I to tender charity to my enemies?'

The Earl looked astonished. 'This was his house, Sir Grenville. He cannot be moved.'

'Cannot? Cannot? There were those who said the King's tyranny could not be moved, but they were wrong.' He waved a careless hand. 'Move him! This afternoon. Now! I want the whole family out, you understand? Out!'

Lady Margaret, at last, moved. She put her sewing down, stood, and walked calmly towards Sir Grenville. She stopped opposite him, forcing him to look up at her. 'My son, Sir Grenville, will die if he is moved. That is the physician's opinion.'

He smiled. 'I have never found physicians reliable in these matters.'

'My son will die.'

'That will teach him not to fight Parliament.' He smiled again. 'He was wanted, I believe, for treachery in London. His death, Lady Margaret, will only save the hangman effort.'

'You cannot force us to leave. My son will die.'

'I cannot! I cannot!' Sir Grenville laughed. 'Lady Margaret, this is my house now, not yours. You may stay as a scullery maid or as a seamstress, but your son will go. He will go now.'

'He will die.'

'Then let him die!'

She slapped him. A swift, open-palmed crack that echoed about the long gallery like a pistol shot. Sir Grenville raised his own arm, fury contorting his face, but the Earl of Fleet stepped forward, his sword already inches out of its scabbard. 'Sir Grenville!'

Cony's bodyguard, taken by surprise, looked on appalled. Sir Grenville, slowly, lowered his arm. 'You will get out of this house, Lady Margaret, you and your family, and you will take nothing, you hear? Nothing but your clothes. Nothing!' He turned to Fuller. 'They have one hour!'

'Yes, sir.'

Sir Grenville wheeled back. His eyes, angry now, looked at the Earl of Fleet. 'And you, my Lord, in this house of the enemy. I hear you wished to know the fate of Dorcas Slythe?'

The Earl of Fleet, surprised that his message should be so widely known, nodded.

Sir Grenville laughed. 'She'll be dead soon, if not yet. Either hanged as a witch, or burned as a husband murderer.' He smiled. 'She was my enemy, my Lord, which I think you are now, too. Get out.'

Lady Margaret did not look back. She, Caroline and Anne shared the Earl of Fleet's travelling coach with Toby. He lay on one bench, groaning. Colonel Washington, his eyes still bandaged, rode on the groom's seat outside. The servants whom Lady Margaret had asked to come walked behind. They skirted the ruins of the gatehouse and climbed into the humped northern hills which were grazed by Sir Grenville's sheep.

Lady Margaret held her son's hand and she knew, with a terrible sickness inside, that her enemies were winning. She had lost everything. Husband and house. Her son's life was flickering, her daughters were silent beside her. The Reverend Perilly caught up with the coach, riding his old nag. She smiled out of the window at him, knowing that he, like she, had nowhere to go.

Caroline sniffed. Lady Margaret frowned at her. 'Quiet, child! There's no need for tears.'

'But, mother...'

'Don't "but mother" me.' Lady Margaret heard James Wright's voice chivvying the horses up one of the slopes that led from the alder-bordered streams. 'We shall be back, Caroline. You can be sure of that. We shall be back.' She gripped her son's hand as if she would pour into Toby all her own formidable strength. 'We shall dance on that man's grave. We shall be back.'

20

Sunlight almost blinded Campion. She cried out, dazzled by the glare, tripped, and one of the two soldiers who had fetched her kicked her. 'Get up! Come on!'

They took her to a small, stone chamber. The July sun warmed these rooms, but she was still cold. Her hair was matted and filthy, some of Scammell's blood still clotted in it. She was cruelly thin. Her skin was scabrous and filthy, her body a thing of fleas and lice.

The soldiers had come for her, but had not told her why. She leaned on the stone wall and saw the ring of filth about her wrists. She rubbed at the dirt, spitting on it, but somehow the hopelessness of the effort made her cry. A soldier growled.

'Quiet, woman.'

She could hear voices, the murmuring of many voices like a church before the service began. The soldiers talked quietly to each other. One of them held a looped rope in his hands.

A door opened, the soldiers stiffened and a voice called out. Campion's elbow was taken, she was pushed forward, and she had an impression of a room crammed with people. There was a gasp as she appeared.

They took her to a single chair in the room's centre, forced her down, and then one soldier wrenched her arms behind the chair. She resisted, but was powerless as he tied her hands to the woodwork. Her breath was gulping now, the aftermath of crying.

'Dorcas Scammell?'

Her eyes were shut. She tried to control her breathing. The crowd behind her buzzed excitedly.

'Quiet!' The noise faded. 'Dorcas Scammell?'

The voice made her look up. Five men faced her, sitting behind a long table draped with a green cloth, their faces shadowed by the light from the window behind them. She blinked.

The man in the centre of the five spoke again. His voice was kind. 'Is your name Dorcas Scammell? I think that it is.' He was a pleasant-faced, middle-aged man.

Still she did not reply. The man looked to Campion's right. 'Is this Dorcas Scammell?'

'It is, sir.' The Reverend Faithful Unto Death, sharing a small table with another minister, rose halfway from his chair as he acknowledged the question.

The man behind the long table looked the other way. 'Record her answer as "yes".'

Two clerks, their hands stained with ink, sat behind a table on Campion's left. Their pens scratched.

The man looked back to Campion. 'I have the task of explaining to you what is happening. My name is Caleb Higbed and I am a lawyer. My companions are also lawyers.' He indicated the men who shared the long table with him. 'This is not your trial, Mrs Scammell, indeed there may not even be a trial!' He said this as if he was offering a child a piece of sugared fruit. 'Today, Mrs Scammell, we will ask you questions. We are a tribunal and the purpose of a tribunal is to draw up a presentment that we will give to the Grand Jury, and it will be the Grand Jury which decides if you are to stand trial. Do you understand?' He said it in such a kindly manner, leaning forward solicitously, that Campion nodded. Higbed leaned back, still smiling.

'Good! Good! Now I see you're accused of witchcraft, and that's why you will be questioned by ministers. That's what we always do with witchcraft.' He smiled again, somewhat apologetically. 'And that is why we have tied your hands. We don't want you flying away on a broomstick!' He raised his eyebrows at her impishly. 'Good! Good! Now I know that all of us are busy men, busy indeed, so I do not think we shall dally in this.' He pulled papers towards him. 'Are we agreed to take the two charges at once? Witchcraft and murder? They are combined, it seems?'

There were nods from the lawyers. Two of them put spectacles on their noses to examine papers. The crowd behind Campion murmured.

Caleb Higbed looked back at her, gave her his kindly smile. 'We'll begin, Mrs Scammell. Can you hear me clearly?'

She nodded.

'Will you speak, Mrs Scammell? It's important that the clerks can hear you.' He said this as if he was apologising for troubling Campion with such an irrelevant manner.

She nodded. 'Yes.' It came out as a croak, so she cleared her throat, swallowed, and tried again. 'I can hear you.'

'Good! Good!' Caleb Higbed looked towards the ministers. 'Mr Palley? I believe you wished to begin. Please do. And speak up, please!'

The Reverend Palley, a scowling, bald man, stood up and walked to the empty space before Campion. His hands clenched together. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and forceful. 'Shall we seek the Lord's guidance?'

Palley hammered God for ten minutes, praying that the truth would be exposed, that evil would be defeated and the tribunal echoed with amens and praises. When Palley finished he bawled out his own 'amen' and then, without drawing breath, turned his heavy face on Campion and shouted at her, 'When did you first practise witchcraft?'