style="font-size:15px;"> She looked into the dark over the Werlatton valley and she thought of her father. She feared him when she should love him, yet the fear had never struck at the very centre of her. She had a secret, a secret that she clung to day and night. It was like a dream that never left her, and in the dream it was as if she was a disembodied soul merely watching herself in Werlatton. She smiled. She now found she was thinking of the disembodied soul as Campion, watching Dorcas be obedient, or trying to be obedient, and she had the sense that somehow she did not belong here. She could not explain it, any more than Toby Lazender had been able to explain how the cold fingers knew the pressure of a fish in the water, yet the sense of her difference had been the sense that enabled her to resist the savage fatherhood of Matthew Slythe. She fed her soul on love, believing that kindness must exist somewhere beyond the tall, dark hedge of yew. One day, she knew, she would travel into the tangled world that her father feared.
‘Miss?’ Charity was shrinking away from the fluttering moth.
‘I know, Charity. You don’t like moths.’ Campion smiled. Her back hurt as she bent over, but she cradled the large moth in her hands, feeling its wings flutter on her palms, and then she threw it to the freedom of the dark where the owl and the bats hunted.
She closed the window and knelt beside her bed. She prayed dutifully for her father, for Ebenezer, for Goodwife, for the servants, and then she prayed, a smile on her face, for Toby. The dreams had been given fuel. There was no sense in it and little hope, but she was in love.
Three weeks later, when the corn was the colour of Campion’s hair and the summer promised a harvest richer than England had known for years, a guest came to Werlatton Hall.
Guests were few. A travelling preacher, his tongue burdened with hatred for the King and preaching death to the bishops, might be offered hospitality, but Matthew Slythe was not a gregarious man.
The guest, Dorcas was told, was called Samuel Scammell. Brother Samuel Scammell, a Puritan from London, and Charity was excited at the visit. She came to Dorcas in the bedroom as the sun was dying over the valley. ‘Goodwife says you’re to wear Sunday best, miss. And the rugs are down in the hall!’
Campion smiled at Charity’s excitement. ‘The rugs?’
‘Yes, miss, and master’s ordered three pullets killed! Three! Tobias brought them in. Goodwife’s making pie.’ Charity helped Campion dress, then adjusted the white linen collar over her shoulders. ‘You do look well, miss.’
‘Do I?’
‘It was your mother’s collar. It mended ever so nice.’ Charity twitched at the edge of it. ‘It looks so much bigger on you!’
Martha Slythe had been fat and tall, her voice competing with Goodwife Baggerlie’s for mastery over the dirt of Werlatton Hall. Campion lifted the edge of the collar. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to wear something pretty just once? Do you remember that woman in church two years ago? The one the Reverend Hervey told off for dressing like a harlot?’ She laughed. The woman had worn a lace collar, pretty and soft.
Charity frowned. ‘Miss! That’s a wicked lust!’
Campion sighed inwardly. ‘I’m sorry, Charity. I spoke without thinking.’
‘God will forgive you, miss.’
‘I’ll pray for that,’ Campion lied. She had long learned that the best way to avoid God’s wrath was to pay Him frequent lip service. If Charity had told Goodwife about Campion’s wish to wear lace, and Goodwife had told her master, then Matthew Slythe would punish Campion. Thus, Campion thought, to avoid punishment she had been taught to lie. Punishment is the best teacher of deceit. ‘I’m ready.’
Matthew Slythe, his two children and the guest ate their supper at the far end of the great hall. The shutters of the tall windows were left open. Dusk was bringing gloom to the wide lawn and hedge.
Samuel Scammell, Campion guessed, was in his mid-thirties and there was a fleshiness to him that betokened a full diet. His face was not unlike her father’s. It had the same bigness, the same heaviness, but where her father’s face was strong, Scammell’s seemed somehow soft as though the bones were malleable. He had full, wet lips that he licked often. His nostrils were like two huge, dark caves that sprouted black hair. He was ugly, an ugliness not helped by his cropped, dark hair.
He seemed eager to please, listening respectfully to Matthew Slythe’s growled remarks about the weather and the prospect for harvest. Campion said nothing. Ebenezer, his thin face darkened by the shadow of beard and moustache, a darkness that was there even immediately after he had shaved, asked Brother Scammell his business.
‘I make boats. Not I personally, you understand, but the men I employ.’
‘Sea-going ships?’ Ebenezer asked, with his usual demand for exactness.
‘No, no, indeed, no.’ Scammell laughed as though a joke had been made. He smiled at Campion. His lips were flecked with the pastry of Goodwife’s chicken pie. More pastry clung to his thick black broadcloth coat, while a spot of gravy was smeared on his white collar with its two tassels. ‘Watermen’s boats.’
Campion said nothing. Ebenezer frowned at her, then leaned forward. ‘Watermen’s boats?’
Scammell put a hand to his stomach, opened his small eyes wide, and tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a small belch. ‘Indeed and indeed. In London, you see, the Thames is our main street.’ He was addressing Campion again. ‘The watermen carry cargoes and passengers and we build most of their craft. We also serve the big houses.’ He smiled at Matthew Slythe. ‘We built a barge for my Lord of Essex.’
Matthew Slythe grunted. He did not seem over-impressed that Samuel Scammell did business with the general of Parliament’s armies.
There was a silence, except for the scraping of Scammell’s knife on his plate. Campion pushed the stringy chicken to one side, trying to hide it under the dry pie crust. She knew she was being rude and she sought desperately for something to say to their guest. ‘Do you have a boat yourself, Mr Scammell?’
‘Indeed and indeed!’ He seemed to find that funny, too, for he laughed. Some of the pastry scraps fell down his ample stomach. ‘Yet I fear I am a bad sailor, Miss Slythe, indeed and indeed, yes. If I must travel upon the water then I pray as our Dear Lord did for the waves to be stilled.’ This was evidently a joke also, for the hairs in his capacious nostrils quivered with snuffled laughter.
Campion smiled dutifully. Her brother’s feet scraped on the boards of the floor.
Her father looked from Campion to Scammell and there was a small, secret smile on his heavy face. Campion knew that smile and in her mind it was associated with cruelty. Her father was a cruel man, though he believed cruelty to be kindness for he believed a child must be forced into God’s grace.
Matthew Slythe, embarrassed by the new silence, turned to his guest. ‘I hear the city is much blessed by God, brother.’
‘Indeed and indeed.’ Scammell nodded dutifully. ‘The Lord is working great things in London, Miss Slythe.’ Again he turned to her and she listened with pretended interest as he told her what had happened in London since the King had left and the rebellious Parliament had taken over the city’s government. The Sabbath, he said, was being properly observed, the playhouses had been closed down, as had the bear gardens and pleasure gardens. A mighty harvest of souls, Scammell declared, was being reaped for the Lord.
‘Amen
