Saraband for Two Sisters (44 page)

Luke’s son was born in February. I called him Lucas. He was like his father but slightly different, and my pleasure in my babies absorbed me. Angelet came over to the farmhouse to be with me whenever she could, but she was never sure when Richard would come to Far Flamstead. Not that he often did. He was too much concerned with the fighting.

As with such conflicts, the excitement and hopes with which they began soon petered out and the great depression and reality remained, for it had become clear that there was going to be no easy victory for either side. I felt myself torn in this conflict. My instincts were to support the Royalists. I knew the King was weak; I knew that he had acted foolishly; I knew that he was stubborn and that he must be brought to reason; but at the same time I did not wish to see our country ruled by those who thought pleasure sinful. I felt a certain need in me to support Luke, which amazed me. I caught something of his enthusiasm for his cause; there was so much that was good in it. I was torn between the two and felt that I could not have served either side with the zest that was needed for victory.

Luke was depressed by the way things were going. He used to say that the soldiers were untrained and an army was needed which could stand up to the King’s disciplined forces. He had the idea of forming his own troop. There were many ready to join. All his farm workers and others from families round came to join. They drilled on our fields and learned the arts of war.

There was much talk now of a man called Oliver Cromwell, who had joined the army as a captain, and he was clearly one to be reckoned with. Luke spoke of him in glowing terms. He was reorganizing the army. It was no longer going to be a straggling mob of men who had no weapons and no skills—little but their fervent belief in the right. Belief in the right there must be, but skill too. ‘Captains must be good honest men.’ Cromwell was quoted as having said, ‘and then good honest men will follow them. A plain russet-coated captain who knows what he is fighting for and loves it I would rather have than what you call a gentleman and nothing else.’ Such words were inspiring, and all over the country those who believed gave themselves up to the task of turning themselves into soldiers.

The months passed and we were at war in earnest. Luke had gone off with his troop and none of us could guess what the outcome would be.

Those dreary years of war, how sickening they were! What a snare it was, for it could bring little good to either side. Much of the country was laid waste; we lived in a state of agonizing expectation during the first months and then we were lulled to something near indifference. Much of the corn was ruined; the Puritans were destroying many ancient treasures because they believed that beauty in itself was evil and that no man should look on something and find it entrancing—architecture, statuary, paintings—for if it gave pleasure it was evil.

When I heard of such destruction I was ardently Royalist; when I thought of Court extravagances and the stubborn nature of the King I was for the Parliament; but more often I had the inclination to curse them both.

I was thinking of Richard, who was in constant danger. Each day I feared that there would be news of his death or capture. There was Luke too who had trained his troop and gone off to fight. It was possible that one day these two would be in the same deadly battle.

‘How stupid it is,’ I cried, ‘to fight and kill to settle differences.’

‘What other way is there?’ asked Angelet.

‘We have words, have we not? Why don’t we use them?’

‘They would never agree. They have tried words and failed.’

Yes, Luke had tried with his pamphlets, but Luke could never see more than one side of this argument. Nor could Richard.

So we waited and lived our lives when the days were long and there were few visitors and the talk was all of war—how this side was winning and then shortly after how it was losing. How Cromwell and Fairfax would soon find their heads on London Bridge; how the King would soon have no throne.

And all the time we waited for news.

Angelet and I saw each other frequently. She would come to the farmhouse more often than I went to her because of the children. She adored them. Arabella was growing up to be like me—self-willed and determined to get what she wanted. Lucas was too young to show what he would be like; but he was a sweet cherubic infant.

Poor Angelet! How she would have longed to have had children and would have been a better mother than I, I suspected. How perverse of nature to have made me, the sensualist, the mother while giving Angelet the qualities needed to rear them.

Strangely enough the children adored me. As soon as Lucas could toddle he would cling to my skirts and look unhappy if his hand were disengaged. They were of course fond of their Aunt Angelet, but I was the centre of their lives.

When Lucas was a year old Phoebe came to tell me that Thomas Greer, one of the farm workers, had asked for her and she would marry him if I gave my consent. I said it was ideal and she could still work with me after she was married, the only difference being that she would live in his cottage instead of sleeping in the house. So Phoebe married and almost immediately became pregnant.

Angelet and I were anxious as to what was happening in Cornwall, although there were reports that that part of the country was firmly in the hands of the Royalists. There was no news of course, because it was not easy to get messages from one side to another of a country plagued by civil war.

So we waited and hoped for news. Snatches of it came to us from time to time, but it went on as before—first one side was victorious and then another; and there was no sign of the end of the war.

It was July of ’44. Lucas was a year and five months old and Arabella was three. The day began like any other. The sky though was leaden and there was a stillness in the air. I had not seen Angelet that day and I had busied myself with the care of the children and wondered whether what corn there was could be safely brought in. In the days before the war we had been concerned with the weather; now there was a greater enemy—the Royalist army for us, the Parliamentary one for Angelet. Luke was well known among his enemies as a man who had worked assiduously to further the cause of the Parliament. His writings had done a great deal to inflame opinion. I often reminded myself that he was a marked man and that one day they would take revenge. I used to keep the children with me at night. Now I watched over them myself, for Phoebe was sleeping in the farm cottage with her husband and her time was getting near. I must be ready at any time of the day or night to snatch up my children and escape the vengeance of Luke’s enemies.

I had developed a habit of light sleeping as people will when there may be something to need their attention at a moment’s notice. And that night I was awakened suddenly by the sound of whispering voices below my window.

I was out of bed, glancing at the children asleep in their cribs, and I went at once to the window.

There were people below.

Oh God, I thought, the Cavaliers have come for their revenge.

I was about to gather up the children when I heard a clanging at the door. I could not escape that way. I would have to face them. I would tell them that General Tolworthy was my brother-in-law, that I was not a Puritan although married to one, and my children were not Puritans …

Boldly I went to the door.

A man was standing there. I recognized him at once by his plain garments and cropped head as a Roundhead.

‘You are Mistress Longridge?’ said the man.

‘I am.’

‘Your husband is here … come all the way from the Moor. He is wounded and would have us bring him to you.’

I ran past him. Luke was being held up by two men. There was blood over his doublet and his face was deathly pale.

‘Luke!’ I cried.

I saw the smile on his terribly pallid features.

‘Bersaba …’ he whispered.

‘Carry him in,’ I commanded. ‘He is badly wounded.’

‘’Tis so indeed, mistress.’

I led the way into the farmhouse and they brought him in. They took him to one of the bedrooms.

Ella came out.

I said: ‘They have brought Luke home. Badly wounded.’

They laid him on the bed.

One of the men shook his head and said: ‘He is sorely tried, mistress.’

I said: ‘There is no time to lose. Wake the servants. We need hot water … bandages … I must attend to him.’

Ella said to me: ‘Stay with him. He wants you there. I will see to the rest.’

I could trust her. Good calm Ella!

His hand moved towards me and I took it.

‘Luke,’ I whispered. ‘You’re home. You’ll get well. I shall nurse you. You will stay at home … out of this accursed war.’

‘’Tis good …’ he murmured.

‘Good to be home, Luke?’

‘To be with you,’ he murmured.

I bent close to him. His skin was clammy and very cold.

‘We’re going to make you well. Ella and I will look after you.’

He closed his eyes.

One of the men said to me: ‘We’ve come from Marston Moor, mistress. There’s many dead up there. But it was victory … victory for us … and Cromwell.’

‘Marston Moor …’ I cried.

‘’Twas a long journey and he would have us make it. He said he must see you before he died.’

‘He’s not going to die,’ I said firmly. ‘We are going to nurse him.’

They did not answer. They just looked at me with sorrowing eyes.

Only when we removed his garments did we see the terrible extent of his wounds. Ella looked at me and murmured: ‘It is the will of God. He fought for what he believed to be right.’

But I was angry that men should destroy each other with their deadly weapons when they had been given minds to reason and tongues with which to speak.

‘I shall save him,’ I cried. ‘I will.’

It was as though I shook my fist at Fate, at God. I’ll not submit to Your will. I’ll not let You take him, for it is so stupid for a young life to be taken in this way.

But it was I who was foolish, for how could I pit myself against the forces of nature?

I stayed with him, for my presence was the only comfort I could give him, and Ella left us because she understood her brother well.

He talked as he died, rambling a little and often incoherent, but I knew what he was telling me.

‘We’re going to win … This will be remembered … The battle of Marston Moor … Cromwell … victory … The end of evil rule … Bersaba … my love … Bersaba … ’

‘Yes, Luke. I am here. I shall always be here while you want me.’

‘It was good … was it not …?’

I put my lips close to his ear and said: ‘It was good.’

‘There is the boy. Little Lucas. Love him …’

‘He is my son, Luke … mine and yours …’

‘Such happiness …Perhaps it was sinful …’

‘Never, never!’ I cried vehemently. ‘How could it be when it brought us Lucas?’

He smiled.

‘The cause is won,’ he said. ‘It was worthwhile … everything … and you, Bersaba …’

‘Yes, Luke. I am here.’

‘I loved you. Perhaps it was wrong …’

‘It was right … absolutely right. And I love you, Luke.’

‘Stay with me,’ he said.

And I did until he died.

So I was a widow, and my hatred of the war intensified. It seemed I had deeply cared for him because I was beside myself with grief.

‘What do I care who wins if only they will stop.’

I mourned for Luke and I was thinking of Richard, who was in the thick of the fight.

Angelet came over to mourn with me.

‘My poor, poor Bersaba. I can understand so well. You see, there is Richard.’

‘Yes,’ I said ironically, ‘there is Richard.’

‘But we must not let the children see our grief.’

She was right. They were our salvation.

Poor Ella, this was her greatest tragedy. She had loved her brother and they had always been together. But she had her belief in the rightness of the cause to sustain her.

‘He lost his life at Marston Moor,’ she said, ‘but he lost it fighting for the right and that battle is going to prove decisive.’

And Richard? I thought. What of Richard?

Angelet wanted us to go to her that Christmas, but I would not, for I could not ask Ella to spend Christmas in a Royalist household when her brother had been killed by them.

‘And you, Bersaba?’ she asked.

‘I care not for either side,’ I answered, ‘and you are my sister. I think I care more for people than ideas. I doubt not there are faults on both sides and we cannot expect Utopia whoever wins. I don’t know what I prefer—the mismanagement of the King or the strictures of the Parliament—perhaps the former, for I am no Puritan. But we cannot say until we have experienced it. No, I care only that they stop this senseless war, this killing of families.’

‘Oh, Bersaba, you are right. You always are. You are so clever. I would those in high places could take your advice.’

I laughed at her. ‘Nay, I am as foolish as the rest,’ I said.

I said that she should come to the farm for Christmas so that we could all be together, and later on in the year when the spring came I would bring the children over to Far Flamstead for a few days. I said I would bring Phoebe with me and that would mean having her young Thomas, for in these times I could not separate them … even if she had someone to leave him with.

‘You should have a new maid now that Phoebe is married and has a baby,’ said Angelet.

‘No one could serve me as Phoebe does. I shall keep her as long as I can. The children will be delighted to come to Flam-stead. They are real little Royalists, I believe.’

So it was arranged.

Richard came home in May. I did not see him and he stayed only a few days. Angelet came to Longridge after he left. She looked radiant and I supposed that was due to his visit.

‘I did not suggest that you come to see him, Bersaba,’ she told me. ‘I should have, of course, if he had stayed longer. He is very uneasy. He says that things are not going well for the King’s army. Men like Fairfax and Cromwell are making soldiers of their followers and their religious fervour gives them something which the professional soldier lacks. That’s what he said. When are you coming to Flamstead? You promised to bring the children, you know.’