The Ballad of John Clare (19 page)

“Aaaaah.”

The crowd laughed.

“Me too!”

Shouted another.

When four or five had drunk from the bottle the Doctor dropped it back into his bag.

“Now the time is come to start our play

So I’ll step back and let the others have their say …”

He turned to the three guisers behind him, and then suddenly stopped, he swung round to the three turn-keys sitting in the doorway:

“What about you my friends, will you not have a sup,

And welcome in the season by tipping the bottle up?”

He reached into his bag again and pulled out a bottle. The turn-keys looked at one another and shrugged.

“I’ll take a drop for good cheer.”

One of them took the bottle lifted it to his lips and gulped down a mouthful. He looked at the others, winked and wiped his mouth.

“So will I by God.”

The second one drank and passed it to the third. He took a swig, gave it back to the Doctor and grinned:

“A merry Christmas to ye!”

The crowd cheered. The Doctor stepped back and Jonathan Burbridge stepped forward:

“In comes I, Saint George, a champion bold,

And with my bloody sword I won three crowns of gold …”

And the play followed its time-honoured pattern. First came swaggering George, and then James Bain as the Turkish Knight, and then the fight with the rattling of sword to sword until the Fool, dancing in and out, was struck his mortal blow. As he dropped to his knees and rolled onto his back the fiddles and flute struck up such a plaintive air that the crowd sighed.

Then Saint George roared:

“Is there a Doctor to be found

To cure this deep and deadly wound?”

And all the children at the front of the crowd pointed at the Doctor:

“There he is!”

Some ragged boys ran forwards and pulled him across to the stretched body of the dead Fool.

Sam Billings looked down at the Fool and up at the crowd:

“Ay, there’s a Doctor to be found

As’ll cure this deep and deadly wound!

I’m a Doctor pure and good,

With my right hand I’ll staunch his blood.”

Then Saint George and the Turkish Knight together put the old question:

“Where have you come from, where have you been?”

“From Italy, Titaly, High Germany, France and Spain,

And now am returned to old England again.”

“What can ye cure and what can’t ye cure?”

“All sorts of diseases,

Just what my physic pleases,

The itch, the pitch, the palsy and the gout,

Devils within and devils without,

And I’ve got a little bottle down the side

Whose fame has travelled far and wide!”

He pulled out a bottle and waved it in the air. The crowd cheered. Someone shouted:

“That’ll do the bloody trick!”

“The medicine in here’s called Alicumpane,

It’ll bring our Fool to life once again.”

He pulled out the cork and poured a splash onto the Fools lips, and another onto his chest.

“A drop to his head, a drop to his heart,

Rise up bold fellow and play your part!”

Fiddles and flute slid slowly from their lowest note to their highest, and as they did so the Fool stirred, opened his eyes, sat up, stretched and stood up on his two feet. Then, suddenly, John, Dick and Otter broke into a jig and the Fool danced, swinging his club so that the bladder bounced to left and right, and all the crowd clapped in time.

When the dance was finished the Fool, a little breathless, bowed to the crowd:

“Ladies and Gentlemen a-sleeping I have been,

And I’ve had such a sleep as the world has never seen,

But now I am alive, not in my grave a-laid

Fair’s fair when all is said and done – the Doctor must be paid!”

He took off his hat and held it out to the crowd:

“It’s your money we want and your kindness we crave,

Then we’ll play ye a tune and take our leave.”

Parker stepped forward amongst the audience who flung farthings and ha’pennies into his hat.

“Thank you sir, thank you madam, thank you kindly and a merry Christmas.”

The band struck up ‘Tom the Piper’s Son’ and then ‘Speed the Plough’. And nobody noticed that where there had been two fiddlers there were now three, their blackened faces almost melting into the gathering night. And only the musicians noticed that the music had a new lift, a lilting swagger that it had not known for half a year.

*******

When the players reached Joyce’s farm no word was spoken of what had taken place at Peterborough. Will Farrell helped Sam bring the horses round to the barn where they were unharnessed from the wain. Will led them across to the stable. Sam helped Will to towel and brush and feed them. They left them with blankets over their backs and their noses to their mangers.

The rest of the company was welcomed to the kitchen. The great table had been pushed to the wall and all the household were waiting for the Morris Play. John, Dick and Old Otter played tunes and as soon as Sam and Will came into the warm Parker stepped forwards:

“Gentlemen and Ladies I’m glad to see you here,

Soon and very soon our actors shall appear …”

When all was done and the hat had been passed about, Farmer Joyce stood up and clapped his hands.

“Very good, very good indeed. And now, as it is the Christmas season, let’s drag out the table and put a ham to it … for what could be the harm in having one for the eve and one for the day.”

Kate, Lizzie, Hope and Mary went out to the bread oven where ham, parsnips, potatoes, carrots and onions had been roasted and now were keeping warm. All were brought to the table, with ale and bread, and all the company and household sat down, elbow to elbow, and ate together.

It was as the gravy was being mopped from plates with chunks of bread that there came a great commotion in the yard, a clattering of hooves and all the farmyard dogs barking. Then there was a hammering at the farm-house door.

“Open up in the name of the law.”

Kate Dyball went across and lifted the latch.

Two town constables pushed into the hot kitchen, followed by several militia-men, all of them flushed and short of breath having galloped hot-foot from Peterborough.

“We are seeking the Helpston guisers.”

Farmer Joyce got up to his feet.

“And here they be gentlemen, every man-jack of them, still blacked up and dressed in their ribbons as you can see.”

The constables looked across at them. The guisers sat impassive at the table, their faces unreadable beneath the soot and grease. One of the constables went across to Farmer Joyce:

“There has been an escape, a break-out. A Boswell. A condemned felon, waiting on his transportation. Broke out of the Bishop’s Gaol this evening.”

Farmer Joyce shook his head:

“Then none of us are safe by God. He’ll have gone back to his own … have you not searched the Boswell camp?”

“Yes, we’ve ridden to Langdyke Bush …they’ve broke camp and vanished.”

“And what about the turn-keys, why weren’t they doing their damned job?”

“We can get no sense from them …one cannot put two words together before he must stare at some piece of fluff upon his jacket as though ‘twas a crown jewel. One sees vipers in every shadow, and the third jibbers like an ape.”

Old Otter pulled out a piece of rag and blew upon his nose.

“In short sir,” said the constable, “they have been drugged.”

Farmer Joyce turned to his household.

“This is an outrage, Hope, Lizzie, make sure all doors and windows are barred tonight …but what has any of this to do with our guisers?”

“The escape was made sir, while they did strut and swagger their Morris Play beneath the Minster Gate.”

James Bain sucked in his breath:

“ ‘Tis the first we’ve heard of any escape.”

Sam Billings nodded:

“Ay, we was just collecting a few coppers for Christmas cheer.”

The constable rapped the table with his fist:

“But that’s not the end of it …we have been given to understand, from several reliable witnesses, that the prison warders drank of a bottle that you did offer them.”

“Ay, the alicumpane, and several others drank of it as well,” Sam Billings lowered his voice, “ ’Tis nothing but brandy and water, Sir, with a little sugar to sweeten it.”

“Where is the bottle?”

“It’s in the Doctor’s bag.”

Sam Billings pointed to the leather bag that was lying on the floor beside the fool’s club and bladder, and the discarded wooden swords.

One of the militia-men picked up the bag and passed it to the constable. He reached inside. He pulled out a bottle. He pulled the stopper from the neck and sniffed.

“It smells harmless enough …but I’ll be damned if it ain’t drugged.”

Farmer Joyce put his hand on the constable’s arm.

“The proof of the pudding is in the eating, my friend.”

He went to a shelf and picked up a horn cup.

“Fill this from the bottle. Get one of these guisers to drink it …and soon enough you’ll discover whether they be innocent or guilty.”

The constable smiled.

“Ay, and if none will drink, we’ll arrest the lot of ‘em, and they shall all be taken.”

He turned to the militia-men:

“Go and fetch the manacles.”

The kitchen door opened and closed.

“Now, is there a man here as’ll drink of this?”

He poured the liquid from the bottle into the cup and held it up.

Parker Clare got to his feet, his leather tail still dangling behind his legs.

“Ay, I will.”

“Very well. It shall be the Fool.”

The cup was passed across. Parker lifted it to his lips and gulped it down. He wiped his mouth. The militia-men returned from the yard and threw the manacles and chains onto the kitchen floor. The constable nodded to Parker:

“Watch him like a hawk.”

“Ay,” said Farmer Joyce, “’tis the only way. Now, how long should we allow for the physic to take effect?”

“Not more than twenty minutes,” said the constable, “for the Morris Play, I’m told, lasts barely fifteen from start to finish.”

“Time enough to take a glass. Come through to the parlour fire the pair of ye and we’ll open a bottle of claret. There’s a comfortable settle there. Come through, come through.”

And Farmer Joyce ushered the two constables out of the room.

In the kitchen Parker sat, with a soldier to either side of him. He enjoyed the warm flush that spread from his belly to every fibre of his body. No word was spoken around the table. It was as mute a Christmas gathering as ever sat down to table. And the militia-men looked uneasy, as though they were on the edge of some joke they could not fathom.

Mary, Lizzie, Hope and Kate gathered up the empty plates and scrubbed them clean at the sink. From time to time Mary caught John’s eye but, like all the others, he gave no sign.

From the parlour the voices of Farmer Joyce and the two constables could be heard rising and falling in good-humoured conversation.

At last the door opened and the three of them returned, a little flushed from the claret and the fire. One of them came forward to the table and peered down into Parker’s blackened face. Parker looked steadily back at him.

“He’s not moved from his chair?”

“No sir.” Said the soldiers.

“Nor supped?”

“Not a drop beyond what was in the mug sir.”

“Hmm, the eyes seem clear enough.”

He nodded to Parker:

“Stand up.”

Parker stood.

“Walk towards the fire.”

Parker walked.

“Hmm, steady too!”

“Question him,” said the second constable.

“Ay. What is your name? Where do you live?”

“My name is Parker Clare. I do live in Woodgate in the village of Helpston.”

The constable looked quizzically at Farmer Joyce. He nodded:

“Plainly spoken and true.”

“What year is it and who is our sovereign King?”

“The year is eighteen and eleven, and our King is George, and the third to bear that name, though it is his son the Prince Regent as has taken the reins.”

“Ay, there’s no gainsaying that. And ‘twas a sounder answer than His Majesty would have give himself. And with whom are we at war?”

Parker smiled beneath his grease:

“Jean FRANCE-wah …”

“Ay, ay. And how many hundred-weight to a ton?”

“Twenty … and shouldn’t I know it, having broke my back oft’ enough beneath a hundredweight sack.”

“Now, now, we’ll have less of your lip, answer me straight. How many pints to a gallon jar.”

“Eight.”

“And a half of eight is?”

“What! You would take four of my pint pots from under my nose and leave me with only four!”

The room filled with laughter. The second constable raised his eyebrows.

“He’s no more addled than a new laid egg. We’ll try one more test though.”

He stepped forward and pulled a piece of printed paper from his pocket:

“Read me this.”

Parker shook his head:

“I can’t neither read nor write.”

Farmer Joyce stepped forwards:

“No more he can, though not for lack of wit.”

He turned to the constable:

“Surely there can be no argument. His head is clear as daylight and he has proved himself and all his company innocent as babes.”

The constables looked at one another and shrugged:

“So it would seem.”

The militia-men picked up the manacles and made towards the door. The first constable bowed to the Company:

“Please accept my humble apologies, gentlemen, for disturbing your meal, and the best of the season to ye all …”

Then he turned to Farmer Joyce:

“But how that cursed Boswell youth broke free is a mystery to me, and him only spared the gallows by a whisker …”

Farmer Joyce ushered them to the kitchen door:

“Ay, ‘tis a curious thing …”

He stood in the icy air and watched the constables and soldiers mount their horses and ride away between the frosted ricks and out of the farmyard gate.

“Goodnight gentlemen, and a merry Christmas to you all!”

When he returned to the kitchen, the guisers and musicians were pulling on their coats and making ready to leave. He stood and blocked the doorway: