“Clever, child—a pity our friend here did not think of it himself. Very well,” she said. “We must talk again. But I have a customer soon who has lost the deeds of his house and I must divine their whereabouts. You must come back another day. Tomorrow, if you wish.”
I thanked her for her kindness, and promised that I would be there the next day, without fail. I was conscious that I was treating her with unnecessary deference, but something prompted me to act so—her person demanded courtesy, though her station did not. As I was picking my way through the debris and puddles in the street outside, I was stopped by a whistle behind me, and, as I looked around, I saw Sarah running after me.
“A word, Mr. Wood.”
“By all means,” I said, half noticing my pleasure at the prospect. “Do you object to taverns?” This was a normal enquiry in those days, as many of the more obscure dissenters did so object, and very strongly. It was best to find out who you were dealing with early on, for fear of bringing down a heap of abuse.
“Oh no,” she said. “Taverns I like.” I would have led her to the Fleur-de-Lys, that belonging to my family and a place where I could have drink cheaply, but I was concerned for my reputation so instead we went to another place, a low hovel scarcely better than her own dwelling. I noticed that she was not treated with friendliness when we entered. Indeed, I had the feeling sharp words might have been exchanged had I not been there. Instead, all the woman gave me, along with the two tankards, was a sneering smile. The words were polite, the sentiment they hid was not, although I could not make it out. Though I had nothing to be ashamed of, I found myself blushing. The girl, alas, noticed and wryly commented on my discomfort.
“Not at all,” I said hastily.
“It’s all right. I’ve had worse.” She even had the tact to lead the way to the quietest corner of the place, so that no one would see us. I was grateful for this consideration, and warmed to her for it.
“Now, Mr. Historian,” the girl said when she had drunk a quarter of her pot, “you must tell me frankly. Do you mean well by us? Because I will not have you causing us more trouble. My mother needs no more. She is tired and has found some peace in the last few years, and I do not want that disturbed.”
I tried to reassure her on this point—my object was to describe the long siege, and the effect that the quartering of troops on the city had had on learning. Her father’s role in the mutiny, and in stirring up the passions of the parliamentary troops, was of significance, whatever it was, but not critical—all I wanted to know was why the troops had refused their orders then, and what had happened. I hoped to set all that down before it was forgotten.
“But you were here yourself, weren’t you?”
“I was, but I was only fourteen at the time and too busy at my studies to notice anything untoward. I remember being mightily displeased when New College school was turned out of its room by the cloister, and I remember thinking that I had never seen a soldier before. I remember standing near the outworks, hoping I could pour boiling oil on someone, hoping to perform deeds of valor and be knighted by a grateful monarch. And I remember how frightened everybody was at the surrender. But all the important facts, I do not know. You cannot write a book based on such paltry material.”
“You want facts? Most people are content to make up their own. That’s what they did with Father. They said he was turbulent and wicked, and abused him for it. Their judgment does not satisfy you?”
“Maybe it will. Maybe it is even correct. But I ask myself questions, nonetheless. How did such a man come to be trusted by so many of his fellows? If he was so verminous, how was he also courageous? Can the noble (if I may use the term for such a person) coexist with the ignoble? And how did he”—here I made my first ever venture into gallantry—“how did he have such a beautiful daughter?”
If she was pleased by the comment, there was no sign of it, alas. No modest look, no pretty blush, just those black eyes staring intently at me, making me feel more ill at ease.
“I am determined,” I continued, covering over my little essay, “to discover what transpired. You ask whether I mean you ill or well, and I tell you I mean you neither.”
“Then you are immoral.”
“The truth is always moral, because it is the image of God’s Word,” I corrected her, feeling, yet again, that I was misspeaking myself and hiding behind solemnity. “I will give your father his say. He will not get it from anyone else, you know. He either speaks through me, or is forever mute.”
She finished off her tankard, and shook her head sadly. “Poor man, who talks so beautifully, to be reduced to speaking through you.”
I do believe she was entirely unconscious of the insult—but I had no desire at that moment to rebuff her by giving the reprimand she deserved. Instead, I looked at her attentively, thinking that this initial confidence might at least get her to speak well of me to her mother.
“I remember once,” she continued after a while, “hearing him addressing his platoon after a prayer meeting. I can’t have been more than nine, I suppose, so it would have been around the time of Worcester. They thought they would be fighting soon, and he was encouraging and calming them. It was like music; he had them swaying to and fro as he spoke, and some were in tears. Possibly they would die, or be captured, or end their lives in jail. That was the will of God and it was not for us to presume to guess what that was. He had given us only one lantern to discern His goodness, and that was our sense of justice, the voice of Right which spoke to all men in their souls if they would listen. Those who examined their hearts knew what the Right was, and knew that if they fought for it, they would be fighting for God. It was a battle to lay the foundation of making the earth a common treasury for all, so that everyone born in the land might be fed by the earth, all looking on others, even old, sick or female, as equals in creation. As they slept and ate, and fought and died, they should remember that.”
I didn’t know what to say. She had spoken softly and gently, her voice caressing me as she spoke the words of her father; so quiet, so kind and, I realized with a start, so profoundly evil. I began, very faintly, to understand how it was done and what the appeal of this Blundy was. If a mere girl could be so seductive, what must the man have been like? The right to eat—no good Christian could object. Until you realize that what this man desired was the overturning of the right of masters to command their employees, the theft of property from its owners, the hacking at the very roots of the harmony which binds each to all. Quietly and kindly, Blundy took these poor ignorants by the hand, and led them into the power of the devil himself. I shuddered. Sarah looked at me with a faint smile.
“The raving of a lunatic, you think, Mr. Wood?”
“How can anyone who is neither a fool nor a monster think otherwise? It is obviously so.”
“Coming from a family of lunatics, I see things a little differently,” she said. “I suppose you think my father used ordinary people for his own evil ends. Is that it?”
“Something like that,” I said stiffly. “That it was devilish was attested by the eating of babies and burning of prisoners.”
She laughed. “Eating babies? Burning prisoners? What liar said that?”
“I read it. And many people have said so.”
“And so you believed it. I am beginning to doubt you, Mr. Historian. If you read there are beasts in the sea that breathe fire and have a hundred heads, do you believe that too?”
“Not unless I have good reason to.”
“And what does a learned man like yourself account a good reason?”
“The proof of my own eyes, or the report of someone whose word can be trusted. But it depends on what you mean. I know that the sun exists, because I can see it; I believe that the earth goes around it because logical calculation concludes that, and it is not contradicted by what I can see. I know that unicorns exist because such a creature is possible in nature and reliable people have seen one, even though I have not myself; it is unlikely that fire-breathing dragons with a hundred heads exist because I cannot see how a natural creature can breathe fire without being consumed. So it all depends, you see.”