The Painter's Apprentice (26 page)

‘I think most are on their way to their churches to see if the
Declaration is going to be read. There’s a deal of curiosity amongst the citizens.’

The sun appeared from behind the clouds and the river stench lifted off the oily green water as the boatman pulled his way
through the floating detritus.

The short trip to Westminster Stairs was swiftly accomplished but the sight of a press of boats all jostling to unload their
passengers greeted them. Tempers were being lost and voices raised as the watermen used their boathooks to push away rival
craft.

Three young men were arguing loudly with their boatman as he failed to shove his way closer to the stairs fast enough to please
them. One of the men leaped to the next boat and then the next, using them as stepping stones as he bounded towards the bank.
His friends whistled and cat-called after him before they followed suit. One of them landed with a thump on to Beth and Noah’s
boat, rocking it so hard that it took on water. Their boatman yelled and swiped at the miscreant’s legs but he’d already jumped
on to the next boat with a shout of merriment.

Beth gathered up her skirts out of the bilge water and clung to the side of the boat. ‘That’s the sort of high-spirited mischief
I expect from Joshua and Samuel,’ she said. ‘I daresay those young men didn’t have the benefit of a father’s discipline, either.’

Noah returned her smile and passed her his handkerchief to blot the splashes from her skirt.

At last their turn arrived to disembark. Once on the stairs they had to push their way through the throng; Noah gripped Beth’s
arm firmly and used his elbow to ease their passage through the noisy mass milling around in Old Palace Yard.

A crowd of people were waiting to file into the Abbey. Beth’s hat was knocked over one eye and she heard Noah’s sharp intake
of breath as a corpulent woman dressed in purple silk pushed past him and stepped on his toe.

At last they were through the doors. The Abbey was crammed but
Noah smiled winningly and persuaded an elderly couple to squeeze together to make room for them.

Beth, pressed closely against Noah, remembered again how he had held her so tightly that afternoon in the studio. She kept
her eyes modestly lowered for fear he would read the longing in her expression.

The expectant rustle of the congregation quietened as the choir began to sing and the service began.

Beth craned her neck to look at the stone columns soaring up to the pointed arches. Light slanted into the Abbey through the
beautiful windows so far above, making a wonderful sense of peace and calm descend upon her.

Then Dean Spratt stood in his pulpit with a sheet of paper in his hands. He was a well-built man whose purplish complexion
indicated that he enjoyed fine wines. His gaze flittered around the congregation. ‘His Majesty, King James,’ he said in sonorous
tones, ‘has instructed that the Declaration of Indulgence is to be read in all churches today. Listen well.’

‘He
is
going to read it!’ whispered Noah.

Dean Spratt lifted his chins and started to read.

Almost immediately the congregation began to murmur. The shuffling of feet and the whisperings grew louder and louder until
the noise completely drowned out the Dean’s voice. He faltered for a moment, his hands trembling so much that the paper shook,
then continued to read.

There was further disturbance as two men stood up and walked out, their boots clipping noisily along the stone floor. Before
they even reached the doors, the rest of the congregation rose as one man.

The choir began to sing again, valiantly attempting to conceal the sound of the congregation’s dissent as they marched angrily
down the aisle.

Beth and Noah were swept along in the general exit. As they reached the doors Beth glanced over her shoulder to see that Dean
Spratt still in his pulpit, reading the Declaration to the empty pews.

Outside the Abbey the congregation stood about in groups, full of excitement and righteous indignation.

‘Sir Christopher knows Dean Spratt well,’ said Noah as they pushed their way through the chattering crowd. ‘He anticipated
that the Dean would read the Declaration today. Thomas Spratt’s tastes are too expensive to risk his living by displeasing
the King.’

‘Will the King dismiss all the clergy who refuse to read the Declaration?’ asked Beth. ‘And what will happen to them? Who
will take the services?

Noah shrugged. ‘Perhaps he intends to replace the ministers with Catholic priests.’

‘But he can’t!’ Beth was outraged. ‘We’ll not have papists in our churches! If the King allows that, before we know it we’ll
have France and Spain knocking at our door. Who knows where that would end? Bishop Compton is right: there would be bloodshed.’

‘Over the next two or three weeks we’ll discover how many of the clergy refuse to obey the King’s orders.’

‘It worries me that Princess Anne thinks the King so set on this course. What if there is civil war again?’

Noah looked at her with a half-smile. ‘How different you are now from when I first arrived at Merryfields. You were determined
then never to step outside its walls. He linked his arm through hers as they stepped over a pothole. ‘There are great things
ahead for you, Beth, I’m sure of it. Losing your paintings was a setback but you will go on to create even better works of
art.’

‘I hope so,’ she murmured, wondering if he would mention how he had held her in his arms that day.

‘And you must let nothing come between you and your ambitions.’

Beth glanced at his face again and saw that his jaw was set. There was a tight knot in her chest. She wasn’t at all sure any
more that she
wanted a life without love so that she was free to dedicate herself to art. ‘And what of your ambitions?’ she asked. ‘Shall
you definitely return to Virginia this autumn?’ She held her breath while she waited for his reply, the knot in her chest
tightening even more.

He chewed at his lip. ‘My mother has written to me, urging me to return. They all miss me.’

‘Your family?’

He hesitated. ‘And my friends.’

‘You have family and friends here, too.’

Noah’s grip on her elbow tightened but he didn’t look at her. ‘There’s the Goat and Compass. Shall we take some dinner?’

At the busy inn and they sat crushed together at the end of a table full of noisy people. Her usual greedy appetite deserted
her as she nibbled her steak pie, nearly choking on the rich gravy and crisp pastry as she came to terms with the fact that
not only was Noah returning to Virginia but he didn’t appear to have any regrets about leaving her behind.

June 1688

Two weeks later, the great hall resounded with the anxious chatter of the household. Beth and Judith sat side by side picking
at their stewed carp and buttered cabbage, listening to snatches of conversation taking place between the gardeners and the
stable boys, the housekeeper, the laundry maids and the secretaries.

‘It seems the whole world is holding its breath waiting for the birth of the Queen’s child,’ said Judith.

‘And to see which of the clergy has read the Declaration,’ said Beth.

‘Nicholas talks of nothing else until I’m fit to shake him,’ said Judith with a sigh.

As Beth finished her nutmeg custard and stewed apple, Bishop Compton drew himself to his feet and rapped on a glass with his
knife.

The buzz of conversation slowed and then ceased. All eyes turned towards him.

‘There has been much speculation on the news from the
parishes,’ said Bishop Compton. ‘I can tell you now that I have collected reports from all parts of England. The Bishop of
Worcester has declined to distribute the Declaration to his diocese, as did the Bishops of Winchester, Exeter, Norwich, Salisbury
and Gloucester. Only three clergymen read the Declaration in the great diocese of Chester.’

A cheer went up from the lower end of the table as the gardeners and stable boys stood up, shaking their fists in the air.

The Bishop held up his hand until they subsided. ‘Out of twelve hundred parishes in Norwich the Declaration was read in only
four parishes. It is clear that a spirit has been awakened in this land which the King had not expected. It is possible, of
course, that the clergy in this fine country of ours may still be
broken
by His Majesty’s orders but
they will not bend!
’

A roar of approval drowned out the Bishop’s voice and the dogs began to bark as the members of the household stamped their
feet and whistled.

Beth, her eyes shining, kissed Judith on both cheeks. ‘We needn’t worry any more. The King is sure to bow to the opinion of
the clergy and the people, isn’t he?’

Judith shrugged ‘Of course it’s good news,’ she said. ‘But when did His Majesty ever bow to the opinion of the people if it
didn’t suit him?’

Beth looked around at the happy, shining faces of the household as they laughed and exclaimed in delight and a quiver of unease
ran down her back. Was Judith right? Was this celebration entirely too premature?

Beth was full of bittersweet hope for the future again when Noah slipped back into his previous habit of visiting her at the
end of each working day. His delight was plain to see as her collection of new paintings grew but, nevertheless, Beth sensed
that he kept a
distance between them. She watched him carefully, searching to read meaning into his conversation but without finding the
answer she sought.

‘What variety of iris is this?’ he asked one afternoon. ‘It’s quite different from the one you painted last week.’

‘That was a mourning iris, so dark a purple it’s almost black. This Siberian flag iris is George London’s favourite. I like
the contrast between the mauve-veined drooping petals and the purple upright petals, don’t you? And then there’s the calyx,
so crisp and delicate it’s like paper half-burned in the fire.’

‘You’ve captured it beautifully.’ He smiled at her, his brown eyes warm. ‘I love to see you show such animation when you talk
about your painting. It’s a happy thing to find such satisfaction in your work.’

‘Yes, it is. But …’ She hesitated. How could she say that she was beginning to realise that she wanted more from life than
painting? She wanted someone special in her life to love. She wanted children. She wanted Noah. ‘But I do sometimes wonder
if Johannes was right.’

‘In what way?’ His expression was guarded.

She met his gaze steadily, even though her heart was thumping. ‘Is it not possible to find a path between the two ways? Must
it be so absolute?’ She sighed. ‘A man is able to fulfil his ambitions, while still enjoying family life. Why cannot a woman?’

‘You know why.’ His voice was terse. ‘Children need their mother.’

Having come this far, Beth wasn’t going to give up. ‘I didn’t suffer while Mama worked in the apothecary.
And
she helped Father with the guests at Merryfields. Phoebe looked after us but Mama was always there if we needed her. With
the right husband, perhaps a woman
can
achieve her ambitions?’

There was a long silence. ‘And what kind of a husband would that be?’ he asked at last.

‘A man who had his own interests and ambitions but who would allow his wife to follow her own heart. A man who would support
her and love her and value what she did.’ The words she wanted to say but couldn’t were, ‘A man like you!’ She held her breath,
a pulse fluttering in her throat like a bird frantic to escape its cage. Would he see her argument for what it was; tantamount
to a proposal?

‘Beth?’ He was very still, staring at her paint-stained hands clasped against her apron.

She waited, scarcely breathing.

Outside, a horse galloped into the courtyard and then a man began to shout. Noah let out his breath with an audible rush as
he went to the window.

Beth could have cried with frustration.

‘There’s a messenger,’ Noah said. ‘Sancroft’s livery.’

‘The Archbishop of Canterbury’s man?’ Curiosity piqued her interest.

Noah nodded. ‘I wonder what this means?’

Hastily, Beth covered her paints with a damp cloth while Noah took her painting into the bedchamber, which she carefully locked.

They hurried downstairs to discover George London standing in the corridor outside the library.

‘We saw the Archbishop’s messenger arrive,’ said Noah.

‘It’s bad news, all right.’ George London’s expression was serious. ‘The bishops who signed the petition to the King were
all summoned to Whitehall this afternoon.’

He’d barely finished speaking when the library door flung open and Bishop Compton strode out, his cheeks crimson with fury.
‘So, you’ve heard the news? The bishops have taken legal advice. They’ll refrain from admitting anything incriminating and
hold their ground, assuring His Majesty of their loyalty to the Crown, but they will neither withdraw the petition nor confess
to any wrongdoing.’

‘Will that be enough to appease the King?’ asked Beth.

Bishop Compton ceased pacing and sighed. ‘It is a risky course of action. We can only hope and pray. I go now to Whitehall
and will wait until there is more news.’

‘May we come with you?’ asked Noah.

The Bishop shrugged. ‘Why not? I’d welcome your company.’

The river at Whitehall was crammed full of small boats. The news that the seven bishops had been summoned before the King
had spread as quickly as the Great Fire had taken hold of the city twenty years before.

The Bishop’s boatmen had to use all their skills to work the barge through the mass of small crafts, shouting, ‘Make way for
the Bishop of London!’ The sheer size and weight of the barge made the rowing boats scurry out of the way as the barge forced
its way to the shore.

Bishop Compton pointed out the Archbishop of Canterbury’s barge, already moored by the stairs, and the boatmen manoeuvred
them into an adjacent position.

A chattering crowd congregated on the banks, the air humming with an excitement that was almost palpable. A group of apprentices
on a nearby skiff, in high spirits due to the leather bottle of wine they passed between them, started to sing. Someone piped
up with a penny whistle and before long a fiddle joined the merry refrain.

On another boat Beth saw a family unpacking a picnic hamper, just as if it were a feast day. The children squabbled over a
loaf of bread and threw their chicken bones into the river to join the rest of the rubbish bobbing about in the water. She
wished they had brought their own provisions for what might prove to be a long wait. Bishop Compton, hunched over in the stern,
was silent, his gaze fixed on Whitehall Palace, ignoring the raucous singing. Every now and again his lips moved in silent
prayer.

Noah, Beth and George London barely spoke, in deference to the
Bishop; after a while the boisterous horde ran out of songs and settled down to wait.

An hour passed, then another.

A dead fish, bloated and stinking, floated past and Beth began to feel the need to find a privy.

The crowd started to mutter and become quarrelsome as it waited so long without news.

A chilly breeze picked up across the wide expanse of the river; the sun began to lower itself towards the horizon while the
river slapped fretfully against the side of the barge. Beth shivered, wrapping her arms around her waist.

Silently, Noah took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders.

With a grateful glance she hugged it to her, luxuriating in the residual warmth of his body against her skin. His coat smelt
slightly of smoke and dust and she wondered if he’d laid it down on a pile of stone or bricks while inspecting a building
site earlier that day.

All at once a murmur ran through the crowd. The noise built up to a collective groan. ‘What is it?’ asked Beth.

Bishop Compton squinted into the setting sun. ‘The crowd is moving.’

‘I’m going to find out what’s happening,’ said Noah. He pulled on the mooring rope and jumped out when the barge bumped the
bank.

Beth caught her breath as he slipped on the muddy steps but he scrambled up and thrust his way through the multitude. In a
moment he had disappeared as surely as if the waters of the murky river had closed over his head.

There were distant angry shouts. Beth narrowed her eyes as she searched for Noah’s bright hair amongst the crowd.

Bishop Compton stood up, his legs braced apart as he stared towards Whitehall. ‘The news cannot be good,’ he said.

George’s face was pale and set. ‘I fear that the King is stubborn enough to insist on his way.’

‘Surely the people and the clergy will never allow it?’ said Beth.

‘How can the people decide what is right when the King himself is set upon destroying the Church? My uncle died in the civil
war,’ said George. ‘Family turned against family. The terror of it was that no one knew who their enemies were and I fear
it happening again.’

‘Perhaps the King will see reason, after all,’ said Beth.

‘When did he ever?’ asked George.

There were more shouts from the sullen crowd and several skirmishes broke out. Then Beth glimpsed Noah as he emerged from
the sea of people ‘Noah’s coming!’

Noah forced his way to the Bishop’s barge through the swarming multitude. Beth’s heart turned over when she saw his rapidly
swelling eye socket and blood running from his nose. ‘What happened?’

‘Sedition,’ he said. ‘Rebellion against the King and his government. The bishops are to be charged with seditious libel!’

‘Damn the King!’ Bishop Compton slammed his hand on to the side of the barge.

‘They’re to be taken to the Tower,’ said Noah, his voice muffled as Beth mopped at his bleeding nose with her handkerchief.
‘The bishops have refused bail.’

‘The Tower?’ Beth dropped the handkerchief, apprehension gripping at her stomach. ‘Will they be beheaded?’

‘They’ll have to be tried first,’ said Bishop Compton, his mouth set in a grim line. ‘But can we believe in justice any more?’

‘Why have the bishops refused bail?’ asked Beth. ‘Surely anything would be better than being sent to the Tower?’

Bishop Compton smiled, just a little. ‘Perhaps that was a shrewd decision.’

Before Beth could ask what he meant by that a rousing cheer went up and the crowd parted to reveal the seven bishops, grey
haired and bent with age. Twenty or so heavily armed soldiers led the prisoners down to the Archbishop of Canterbury’s barge.

There was a cacophony of cat calls and shouts of ‘Shame!’ The King’s men were jostled, one tripped up by a protester’s foot.

‘Scared?’ A man in the crowd taunted one of the soldiers. ‘Do you think these old men are so dangerous they’ll overpower you?’

The cheering people rushed forward, stretching out their hands to touch the bishops’ cloaks. The hullabaloo was such that
it was impossible for Henry Compton’s voice to be heard when he called out to the prisoners. But then Archbishop Sancroft
saw him and lifted a hand only to be shoved in the back by a soldier as he stepped on to the barge.