Ebenezer.
‘And wickedness is being uprooted!’ Scammell raised his eyebrows to emphasise his words. He told of two Roman Catholic priests discovered, men who had stolen into London from the Continent to minister to the tiny, secret community of Catholics. They had been tortured, then hanged. ‘A good crowd of Saints watched!’
‘Amen!’ said Matthew Slythe.
‘Indeed and indeed.’ Samuel Scammell nodded his head ponderously. ‘And I too was an instrument in uprooting wickedness.’
He waited for some interest. Ebenezer asked the required question and Scammell again addressed the answer to Campion. ‘It was the wife of one of my own workmen. A slatternly woman, a washer of clothes, and I had cause to visit the house and what do you think I found?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘A portrait of William Laud!’ Scammell said it dramatically. Ebenezer tutted. William Laud was the imprisoned Archbishop of Canterbury, hated by the Puritans for the beauty with which he decorated churches and his devotion to the high ritual which they said aped Rome. Scammell said the portrait had been lit by two candles. He had asked her if she knew who the picture represented, and she did, and what is more had declared Laud to be a good man!
‘What did you do, brother?’ Ebenezer asked.
‘Her tongue was bored with a red hot iron and she was put in the stocks for a day.’
‘Praise the Lord,’ Ebenezer said.
Goodwife entered and put a great dish on the table. ‘Apple pie, master!’
‘Ah! Apple pie.’ Matthew Slythe smiled at Goodwife.
‘Apple pie!’ Samuel Scammell linked his hands, smiled, then cracked his knuckles. ‘I like apple pie, indeed and indeed!’
‘Dorcas?’ Her father indicated that she should serve. She gave herself a tiny sliver that brought a sniff of disapproval from Goodwife who was bringing lit candles to the table.
Samuel Scammell made short work of two helpings, gobbling the food as though he had not eaten in a week, and swilling it down with the small beer that was served this night. Matthew Slythe never served strong drink, only water or diluted ale.
The pie was finished without further talk and then, as Campion expected, the conversation was of religion. The Puritans were divided into a multiplicity of sects, disagreeing on fine points of theology and offering men like her father and Brother Scammell a splendid battleground for anger and condemnation. Ebenezer joined in. He had been studying Presbyterianism, the religion of Scotland and much of England’s Parliament, and he attacked it splenetically. He leaned into the candlelight and Campion thought there was something fanatical in his thin, shadowed face. He was speaking to Samuel Scammell. ‘They would deny our Lord Jesus Christ’s saving grace, brother! They would dispute it, but what other conclusion can we draw?’
Scammell nodded. ‘Indeed and indeed.’
The sky had gone ink black beyond the windows. Moths flickered at the panes.
Samuel Scammell smiled at Campion. ‘Your brother is strong in the Lord, Miss Slythe.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you?’ He leaned forward, his small eyes intent on her.
‘Yes, sir.’ It was an inadequate answer, one that made her father stir in suppressed wrath, but Scammell leaned back happy enough.
‘Praise the Lord. Amen and amen.’
The conversation, thankfully, passed from the state of her soul to the latest stories of Catholic atrocities in Ireland. Matthew Slythe warmed to the subject, anger giving his words wings, and Campion let the phrases hammer unheard about her head. She noticed that Samuel Scammell was stealing constant looks at her, smiling once when he caught her eye, and she found it unsettling.
Toby Lazender had said she was beautiful. She wondered what he did in London, how he liked a city ‘cleansed’ by the Puritans he so disliked. She had asked Charity, three weeks before, if a visitor had been in church and Charity had said yes. A strong young man, she said, with red hair, who had bellowed out the psalms in a loud voice. Campion was sad. She guessed Toby must have thought she did not want to see him again. She saw Samuel Scammell staring at her again and it reminded her of the way other men looked at her, even, though she found it hard to believe, the Reverend Hervey. Scammell seemed to eye her as a bull might a heifer.
The owl that hunted the beech ridge sounded in the night.
Samuel Scammell excused himself from the table and walked down the stone-flagged passage that led to the close-chamber.
Her father waited till his footsteps stopped, then looked at his daughter. ‘Well?’
‘Father?’
‘Do you like Brother Scammell?’
Her father did, so her answer was obvious. ‘Yes, father.’
Scammell had not closed the chamber door and she could hear him urinating into the stone trough, a sound just like that of a horse staling in the stable-yard. It seemed to go on for ever.
Ebenezer scowled at the candles. ‘He seems sound in his beliefs, father.’
‘He is, son, he is.’ Matthew Slythe leaned forward, his face gloomy as he stared at the remains of the apple pie. ‘He is blessed of God.’
The splashing still sounded. He must have the bladder of an ox, Campion thought. ‘Is he here to preach, father?’
‘Business.’ Her father gripped the table top and seemed to brood. A pulse throbbed at his forehead. The sound of Scammell’s pissing stopped, started again, then faded in spurts. Campion felt sick. She had hardly eaten. She wanted to be out of this room, she wanted to be in her bed where she could lie and dream her private dreams of the world beyond the high yew hedge.
Samuel Scammell’s footsteps were loud in the passage. Matthew Slythe blinked, then put a welcoming smile on his face. ‘Ah! Brother Scammell, you’re back.’
‘Indeed and indeed.’ He waved a pudgy hand towards the passage. ‘A well-appointed house, brother.’
‘Praise God.’
‘Indeed and indeed.’ Scammell was standing by his chair, waiting for the mutual praise of God to cease. Campion saw a dark, damp patch on his breeches. She looked at the table instead.
‘Sit down, brother! Sit down!’ Her father was forcing jollity into his voice, a heavy-handed jollity that was only used with guests. ‘Well?’
‘Yes, indeed yes.’ Scammell hitched up his breeches, scooped his coat aside and scraped his chair forward. ‘Indeed.’
‘And?’
Campion looked up, alerted by the inconsequential words. She frowned.
Scammell was smiling at her, his nostrils cavernous. He wiped his hands together, then dried them on his coat. ‘“Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth
