That earned me one of those lovely smiles I still remember so very well. ‘There are few as kind as you,’ she said. ‘More’s the pity.’
She wasn’t eager, but her need for work overcame her scruples and eventually she went to Grove and took the position. I was pleased for this and saw what a delight it is to be able to patronise others, even if in a small way. Through me, Sarah had enough work to live and even to save, if she was careful. For the first time in her life she was living a settled, respectable existence, in her place and apparently content. It comforted me greatly, as it seemed a good omen for the future; I was glad for her and thought maybe the rest of the country would prove equally tractable. My optimism was, alas, badly misplaced.
Chapter Three
* * *
I RUN AHEAD of myself. My eagerness to put all down on paper means that I leave much out which is vital; I should measure out my facts, so that all who read can discern the pattern of events with clarity. This, in my opinion, is what proper history should be. I know what the philosophers say, that the purpose of history should be to illustrate the noblest deeds of the greatest men, to give examples for the present generation of debased inferiors to emulate, but I do believe that great men and noble deeds can look after themselves; few, in any case, stand up to much close examination. The view is not unchallenged anyway, I think, as the theologians wag their fingers and say that truly the whole purpose of history is to reveal the wondrous hand of God as He intervenes in the affairs of man. But I find this a doubtful programme as well, at least as it is commonly practised. Is His plan truly revealed in the laws of kings, the actions of politicians or the words of bishops? Can we easily believe that such liars, brutes and hypocrites are His chosen instruments? I cannot credit it; we do not study the policies of King Herod for lessons, but rather seek out the words of the least of his subjects, who finds no mention in any of the histories. Look through the works of Suetonius and Agricola; study Pliny and Quintilian, Plutarch and Josephus and you will see that the greatest event of all, the most important happening in the entire history of the world, entirely passed them by despite their wisdom and learning. In the time of Vespasian (as Lord Bacon says) there was a prophecy that one who came out of Judaea should rule the world; this plainly meant our Saviour, but Tacitus (in his History) thought only of Vespasian himself.
Besides, my job as an historian is to present the truth, and to tell the tale of these days in the approved fashion – first causes, narrative, summation, moral – would be, surely, to present a strange picture of the time in which it happened. In that year of 1663, after all, the king was nearly toppled from his throne, thousands of dissenters were locked in gaol, the rumblings of war were heard over the North Sea, and the first portents of the great fire and the greater plague were felt throughout the land, in all manner of strange and frightening events. Are all these to be relegated to second place, or be seen merely as a theatre set for Grove’s death, as though that was the most important occurrence? Or am I to ignore that poor man’s end, and all events which took place in my town, because the manoeuvrings of courtiers which took us to war the next year, and nearly consumed us in civil strife once more, are so much more important?
A memorialist would do one, an historian the other, but perhaps both are mistaken; historians, like natural philosophers, come to believe reason sufficient for understanding and deceive themselves that they see all and comprehend everything. In fact their labours ignore the significant and bury it deep under the weight of their wisdom. The mind of man unaided cannot grasp the truth, but only constructs fantasies and fictions which convince until they convince no more, and which are true only until discarded and replaced. The reasonableness of humanity is a puny weapon, blunt and powerless, a child’s toy in a baby’s hand. Only revelation, which sees past reason and is a gift neither earned nor deserved, says Aquinas, can take us to that place which is illumined with a clarity beyond all intellect.
The ramblings of the mystic, however, would serve me ill in these pages, and I must remember my calling; the historian must work through the proper recitation of facts. So I will go back a while to the start of 1660, before the Restoration of his Majesty, before ever I knew Paradise Fields, and shortly after Sarah had begun to work in my mother’s house. And, instead of windy rhetoric, I will tell how I visited the Blundys’ cottage one day to ask a few extra questions about the mutiny. As I approached down the lane, I saw a short, wiry man leave the cottage and walk swiftly away from me; on his back he had a pack such as travellers use. I looked at him with some passing curiosity, simply because he had come from Sarah’s house. He was not young, not old, but had a determined gait and walked off without glancing back. I only had one look at his face, which was fresh and kindly, though scored deeply with lines and weather-beaten like that of a man who had spent most of his life outside. He was clean shaven, and had an unruly mop of fair, almost blond, hair which was uncovered by any hat. In build he was slight, and not tall, yet he had an air of wiry strength to him, as though he was used to enduring great privations without flinching.
It was the only sight I ever had of Ned Blundy, and I regret greatly that I had not arrived a few minutes earlier, as I would have dearly liked to have questioned him. Sarah told me, however, that it would have been a waste of my time. He had never been open with strangers and trusted only slowly; she thought it very unlikely he would have been forthcoming even had he not been unusually preoccupied on what turned out to be his last visit.
‘I would still have liked to start an acquaintance,’ I said, ‘as perhaps in the future we might meet again. Were you expecting him?’
‘No, indeed not. We have seen very little of him in recent years. He has been always on the move and my mother is too old to go with him. He also thought it better if we stay here and make our own lives. Perhaps he is right, but I miss him greatly; he is the dearest man I know. I am worried for him.’
‘Why so? I did not see him well, but he has the air of a man able to look after himself.’
‘I hope so. I have never doubted it before. But he was so serious in his leave-taking that he frightened me. He spoke so gravely and gave such warnings about our safety that I am concerned.’
‘Surely it is natural for any man to be concerned for his family when he is not there to protect them?’
‘Do you know a man called John Thurloe? Have you heard of him?’
‘Of course I know his name. I am surprised you do not. Why do you ask?’
‘He is one of the people I am to be wary of.’
‘Why?’
‘Because my father says he will want this off me if he learns of it.’
She pointed to a large bundle on the floor by the fireside, wrapped in cloth, bound up with thick cord and sealed with wax at every point.
‘He did not tell me what it was, but said it would kill me if I opened it, or if anyone ever knew it was here. I am to hide it securely, and never breathe a word to anyone until he comes back to claim it.’
‘Do you know the story of Pandora?’
She frowned and shook her head, so I told her the tale. Even though preoccupied, she listened, and asked sensible questions.
‘I take it as a good warning,’ she said, ‘but I intended to obey him in any case.’
‘But you promptly tell me, before your father is even past the city walls.’
‘There is no place here to hide it where it would not be found within minutes by a determined searcher, and we have few trustworthy friends who would not also be examined. I would like to ask you the greatest favour, Mr Wood, as I trust you and think you a man of your word. Will you take it and conceal it for me? Promise you will not open it without my permission, and never reveal its existence to anyone?’
‘What is in it?’
‘I have told you. I do not know. But I can tell you that nothing my father does is base, or cruel or means harm. It will only be for a few weeks, then you can give it back to me.’
This conversation
– which ended with my agreement – may strike any reader of my words as strange. For it was as foolish for Sarah to trust me as it was for me to hide a package which might have contained any number of horrors to cause me grief. And yet both of us chose wisely; my word once given is sacrosanct and I never even considered violating her trust. I took the package away and concealed it in my room underneath the floorboards, where it remained undisturbed and unsuspected. I did not think of opening it or going back on my promise in any way. I agreed because I never even considered not doing so; I was already falling under her spell, and willingly conceded any request which bound her to me and earned her gratitude.
Of course, the package was that bundle of documents which Blundy had shown to Sir James Prestcott, and which Thurloe held to be so dangerous that he tried for years to recover them, and caused Anne Blundy’s fatal injury in the final search by his men. It was for those papers that, after Blundy died and Sir James Prestcott fled, Thurloe’s agents fanned out across the land, given any powers they wanted. It was to discover that bundle that Sarah’s house was ransacked, and ransacked again, her friends and acquaintances, those of her father and mother too, questioned closely and brutally. It was for this package that Cola came to Oxford, and it was for the same package that Thurloe steered Jack Prestcott and Dr Wallis into hanging Sarah, lest she reveal its whereabouts.
And I knew nothing of this, but I kept it safe as I had promised, and no one ever thought to ask me about it.
I am very much afraid that my narrative, should any have cause to read it, will not please as much as those three on which it is based. I wish that, like them, I could offer a simple, straightforward narrative of events, full of obvious statements and gripped by the adamantine embrace of conviction. But I cannot do so because the truth is not simple, and these three gentlemen present only a simulacrum of verity, as I hope I have already demonstrated. I am sworn not to leave out contradictions and confusions, nor am I so full of my own importance that I have sufficient confidence to leave out all but what I did, saw and said myself, for I do not credit that my own presence was of critical importance. I must set down fragments, all jumbled up and criss-crossing the years.
So now I go forward again, and begin my tale in earnest. Around the middle of 1662, after I had known Sarah Blundy for nearly three years and the kingdom had been at peace for two, I was moderately contented with my lot in life. My routine was as unshakeable as it was rewarding. I had my friends, with whom I associated in the evenings, either at dinner or at music parties. I had my work, which was finally beginning to find the purpose which has occupied me ever since, bringing ever richer rewards in knowledge. My family was well enough established with no member, not even the most distant cousin, bringing anxiety, expense or dishonour to our door. I had secure and unchallenged possession of an annuity which, however small, was more than enough to provide food and lodging and such necessaries as my work required. I suppose that I would have liked more for, if I already realised that I would never take on the expense of marriage, I would happily have spent more on books, and engaged more completely in those acts of charity which illuminate the life of man when properly undertaken.
This was a minor concern, however, since I have never been one of those bitter and envious men who desire to be as rich as their fellows and define insufficiency as what they themselves possess. All of my friends in those days have become far wealthier than myself. Lower, for example, became the most fashionable doctor in London; John Locke has been supported in great style by generous and wealthy patrons and received countless pensions and annuities from the government before the enmity of the powerful forced him into exile. Even Thomas Ken battened on to a fat bishopric. But I would not change my life for theirs, for they constantly have to concern themselves with such matters. They live in a world where, if you do not perpetually rise, then you inevitably fall. Fame and fortune are of the most evanescent quality; I have, and can lose, neither.
Besides, none of the three gentlemen are contented, I know; they are too aware of the price of their money. All three regret the passing of their youth, when they thought they would do as they chose and dreamt of greater things. Without the demands of family – the incessantly open mouths of his own children and those children of his brother – Lower might have remained in Oxford and carved a name for himself deep into the tree of fame. But instead he went to practise as a fashionable physician, and has done no useful work since. Locke detests those who reward him so well, but was too used to good living to abandon the habit, which now means he must live in Amsterdam for his own safety. And Ken? What choices he has made! Perhaps one day he will take a stand in public for what he truly believes. Until then he will remain in the torment of his own devising, assuaging the demons of self-criticism by his ever more extravagant works of benevolence.
As long as I have had my labour, I have been contented, and wanted no more. In those days particularly I believed myself to be delightfully set up, and suffered no melancholy longings to distract me. I was, as I say, pleased that I had established Sarah in a good and reliable position with Dr Grove, and complacent that the comforting drift of my life would continue unabated. This was not to be, for bit by bit the events which are narrated in the three manuscripts I have been reading invaded my little world and disrupted it entirely. It took a very long time indeed before I was able to establish something of the balance that sound scholarship and peaceful existence both require. Indeed, I think that I never did.
The first pinprick at my bubble of contentment came in late autumn. I was in a tavern, where I had paused one evening after a long day breathing in the dust of Bodley’s books. I was perfectly quiet and rested, having no thought in my mind at all to distract me, when I overheard part of a conversation between two low and verminous townsmen. I did not want, or intend, to listen but sometimes it cannot be avoided; words force their attention upon the mind, and will not be kept out. And the more I heard, the more I had to hear, because my body stiffened and was made icy cold by their gossip.
‘That leveller whore the Blundy girl.’ That was, I think, the only phrase which initially my ears discovered amid the general hubbub in the room. Then, word by word, more of the conversation came to me. ‘Rutting cat.’ ‘Every time she cleans his room.’ ‘Poor old man, must be bewitched.’ ‘Wouldn’t mind a chance myself.’ ‘And him a priest. They’re all the same.’ ‘You can tell just by looking, really.’ ‘Dr Grove.’ ‘Spread her legs for anybody.’ ‘Is there anyone who hasn’t?’
I now know these vile and disgusting reports to be absolutely false, although I did not know until I read Prestcott’s manuscript that they had originated with him after his cruel rape. Even then I did not instantly believe what I heard, for many lewd and boastful stories are told in drink, and if they were all true then there could scarcely be a virtuous woman in the country. No, it was not until Prestcott himself approached me that my refusal turned to doubt, and the creeping demons in my mind began to gnaw, at my soul, making me hateful and suspicious.
Prestcott has recounted our initial meeting, called in as I was by Thomas Ken to assist: Ken hoped that I would do what he could not, and persuade the lad to give up what was liable to be a hopeless quest. Ken had tried, I think, but Prestcott’s violent response to all criticism restrained his efforts. He hoped that a cogent detailing of the facts would produce a reasonable response, and that Prestcott would listen to me if I gave such an account.
It took only a short acquaintance, however, before I realised that I neither liked Mr Prestcott, nor wanted to involve myself in his fantasies in any way. So when he saw me in the street later and hailed me, my heart sank, and I prepared a story about how I had not yet completed my investigation.
‘That is of no matter, sir,’ he said jovially, ‘since there is nothing I can do with it at the moment. I am shortly off on a tour of the country, to my people and to London. It will wait until I return. No, Mr Wood, I need to talk to you on a particular matter, for I have a warning to
give you. I know you to be of a respectable family, and no member more so than your much admired mother, and I am loath to stand by and let your name be tarnished.’
‘That is kind of you,’ I said in astonishment. ‘I am sure there is nothing we need concern ourselves with. What, exactly, do you mean?’
‘You have a servant, do you not? Sarah Blundy?’
I nodded, a feeling of concern creeping over me. ‘We do. A fine worker, dutiful, humble, and obedient.’
‘So she no doubt appears. But as you know, appearances can be deceptive. I must tell you that her character is not as good as you like to think.’
‘It grieves me to hear it.’
‘And it grieves me to tell you. I am afraid that she is engaged in fornication with another of her employers, a Dr Grove, of New College. Do you know the man?’
I nodded coldly. ‘How do you know this?’
‘She told me. Boasted of it.’
‘I find that difficult to believe.’
‘I did not. She approached me and offered herself to me for money in the grossest and coarsest fashion. Naturally, I spurned the offer, and she as good as said that her qualities could be vouched for by many others. Many, many other satisfied clients, she said with a grin, and added that Dr Grove was a new man since she had taken to providing him with the sort of satisfaction the Church could not offer.’
‘You grieve me when you say this.’
‘I apologise for that. But I thought it for the best . . .’
‘Of course. It was kind of you to take such trouble.’
That was the essence of the conversation; there certainly was not much more to it, but what an effect it had on my mind! My first reaction was to reject absolutely what he had told me, and persuade myself that what I knew of the girl, and my sense of her goodness, were more valuable than the testimony of an outsider. But my suspicions gnawed at me, and would not be tamed, and finally consumed me entirely. Could my own sense of her nature be counted more valuable evidence than the actual experience of someone else? I thought of her in one way, it appeared Prestcott knew her to be other. And did my own experience contradict what he said? Had not the girl given herself to me freely? I had not paid her, but what did that say of her moral nature? Surely it was mere vanity on my part to think she had lain with me out of regard? The more I thought, the more I perceived what had to be the truth. She, alone of all women, had allowed me to touch her, and I had become infatuated as a result, instead of seeing that I could have been anyone. The desires of women are stronger than those of mere men; this is well known and I had forgotten it. When in heat they are ravenous and insatiable, and we poor men think it love.