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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Mercia Blakewood
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
Following adventures she would sooner forget in the newly renamed New York, Mercia Blakewood is hopeful that she has gained the leverage with the king she needs to reclaim her family's home back in England. The breathtaking new world piques her curiosity and a burgeoning friendship with Clemency Carter, a local medicine woman, prompts Mercia to delay her return. Navigating an unknown landscape, the aftershocks still felt of revolution and restoration, and the uneasy relationship between the Puritan settlers and native Indians, proves complex. But when the virgin forests of New England are tainted by murder, Mercia will not rest until the killer is brought to justice.
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Seitenzahl: 627
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Puritan
DAVID HINGLEY
For Mom and Dad, who nurtured my love of learning
Contents
Chapter One
The red blur flew past Mercia’s cheek, chill air skimming her face. From atop her nervous horse she looked around, staring at the elm tree quivering beside her. A din of blue and black ascended screeching from its branches; loose leaves fluttered to the earthen ground, settling on top of others now turned a dirty brown from the soil the steady rain was trickling across them.
For a moment she hesitated, but then she shifted in her saddle, her eyes settling on the elm’s warped trunk. A slender pole was trembling level with the topknot of her hair, the painted axe head at its end embedded deep in the bark. Still uncertain, her horse pulled up short, taking its lead from the others around it.
As her travelling party reacted to the hatchet, two men rode into place to surround her. Behind, Nathan Keyte, her great friend and perhaps now her lover, not losing his grip on the boy riding with him: her son. In front, Nicholas Wildmoor, her manservant, positioning himself between her horse and the forest, his youthful green eyes the colour of the leaves on their branches as they waited for their annual fall.
A rustling in the bushes – a murmuring – a collective intake of breath. The men in her group – they were all men, besides her – drew firearms, pointing them towards the woods. Mercia took her own pistol from the belt around her dress, specially tailored down the middle so she could ride the rough forest paths more easily. Nathan had insisted on it, as she had on the pistol: she had to protect her son in case of attack.
A barely dressed man stepped onto the forest trail, the anger on his face apparent. The muscles of his bare abdomen hardened above his deerskin breechclout as he clenched a wooden spear adorned with feathers and colourful beads. His many bracelets of white and blue wampum jangled against its tip.
‘Nummayaôntam!’ he cried.
One of Mercia’s group signalled to the rest to keep still. After a fashion they complied, although their fingers continued to twitch on their pistols. She glanced left and right; the men’s faces were grim, but they held back. Then the man who had signalled turned to the Indian on the path.
‘Tawhìtch musquaw … naméan?’ he said, stumbling over the syllables in his broad English accent. ‘Wutti … neapum … mushâuta!’
‘What did you say?’ his nearest companion whispered, his thumb stroking the arming mechanism of his loaded doglock.
‘I asked him why he was angry, to let us pass.’ The man nodded at his friend’s gun. ‘Best put that down.’
His companion scoffed, not lowering his pistol. ‘Can these heathens not learn English?’
The Indian advanced. ‘We speak English much better than you do our words. But we know the tongue you prefer is that of death.’ Reaching into the fur pouch tied onto his belt, he pulled out a knife, stained with blood; in front of Mercia, Nathan tensed, but the Indian merely threw the weapon to the ground. ‘You know this blade, I think.’
The interpreter jumped from his horse to pick up the knife. ‘No,’ he blinked, turning it in his hands. ‘I do not.’
‘Then perhaps you will know this.’ He let out a screech, a shrill sound more of a bird of the forest than of a man. A ragged object flew from the undergrowth, crashing on the dirty track near to Nathan’s horse. Mercia peered round to be repulsed by a severed head, the pale skin of an Englishman turning grey amidst sunken cheeks. The blood at the neck was black and congealed. She looked away, nauseous, involuntarily thinking of her father.
‘Savage dog!’ The interpreter’s companion pulled his trigger, but his fury impaired his aim; the bullet went wide, ploughing instead into the bushes. A high-pitched voice screamed out in pain, a boy tumbling from his hiding place, clutching his shoulder. Of a sudden a mass of angry men, their shining bodies covered in grease, stormed onto the trail. Nicholas hugged his horse closer to Mercia’s, but then another, sombrely dressed man in their party rode forward, turning aside a young follower who had been shielding him just as Nathan and Nicholas had been protecting her.
‘Aquétuck!’ he shouted at their assailants, holding up a wrinkled hand, and then to his own men: ‘Stop!’ He halted his horse in front of the Indian who had spoken, raising his hands in a gesture of peace, all the while exposed to being hacked down where he sat. The Indian stared up at him a moment, breathing steadily, before curtly nodding and barking orders to his own men. Grumbling, they lowered their hatchets and guns, glaring at their leader in their bloodlust, but obeying his instructions nonetheless.
‘Powwow Winthrop,’ said the Indian. ‘For you I will listen.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘But only as it is you.’
‘Cowauôntam.’ Winthrop bowed in his saddle. ‘Your wisdom is strong, sachem.’ His eyes flicked to the severed head. ‘Now, let us talk.’
The road to New England should have been well worn after several years’ use, but the track was tortuous as it weaved through the dim forest. The deep ruts were causing trouble even for horses accustomed to the colonial wilderness, and the recent rain was making the grooves slippery, the going becoming slower still. As Mercia made her way into a river valley, the water running swiftly below, Nicholas’s horse skidded in the mud behind, knocking its head into the flank of her mount. But she kept her balance, soon reaching the narrow river that blocked their path.
While she was waiting her turn to ford the stuttering stream – the men liked her to go in the middle; they thought she needed the protection – Winthrop fell in alongside her.
‘Do not mind the men,’ he said. ‘After that excitement they are anxious for home.’
Mercia nodded. ‘I can understand that, Governor.’
Winthrop smiled, his face creasing under his broad-brimmed hat. ‘You tire of America already, Mrs Blakewood?’
‘Why, no.’ She looked up at the trees, the elms by now familiar from their three-day ride. ‘Surprise encounters aside, it is … invigorating. So unlike home. But home will always be home.’
‘I too once thought of England as home,’ he mused, fiddling with the reins of his horse. ‘But that was above thirty years ago. Now home could never be anywhere but here. I am more pleased than you know that you accepted my invitation to visit us.’ He lifted his rein with a gloved hand, pointing towards the riverbank. ‘It appears you are next.’
‘Careful!’ Beckoning her approach, one of the party was shouting louder than he needed: the river was not roaring and there was no wind to steal his words. ‘’Tis a narrow crossing, but the rains have made it swift. Will you manage to ford it?’
‘Will I manage?’ she muttered. ‘Narrow is right. ’Tis no more than the breadth of this horse.’
Pulling her hood around her, she made sure her grip was tight and sped towards the riverbank. Without stopping she leapt her horse across; its back hooves splashed into water on the other side, but its front legs found muddy land and it pulled itself up to stop beside Nathan who had forded immediately before her.
He shook his head and smiled. ‘Always the hard way with you.’
She shrugged. ‘Hardly a difficult jump.’
‘Well done, Mamma!’ Astride Nathan’s horse, her son beamed up at her, joy across his young face. ‘Can I try?’
Pleased at his approval, she laughed. ‘No, Daniel. There will be plenty of chance to ride horses while we are here, but no leaping rivers. And—oh!’ She looked behind as she heard a loud thud. Nicholas had made the same jump she had.
‘See what you have started,’ said Nathan.
‘I don’t know,’ said Nicholas. ‘An Indian ambush, and now a river jump. Who says the New World is dull?’
‘I have not found it so,’ she agreed.
‘No.’ Nathan calmed his anxious horse. ‘But let us hope it is duller in Connecticut than it was in New York.’
Not many miles beyond the river, they emerged from the forest to pass through the town of New Haven, its nine squares of houses laid out around a central green, but they did not stop. As they were passing a white-boarded house set apart on the outskirts of town, she thought she saw Winthrop give her a hasty glance before looking up at the first-floor windows and quickly away. Following his gaze she was too late to see whoever had been peering out, but she thought she had seen two silhouettes. And then a blurred figure returned, only to vanish as she inclined her head, wondering who was watching.
It was a similar story in the main part of the small town, although here most stayed standing at their windows or doors, happy to be seen. Many wore angry grimaces, one woman even hissing as Winthrop passed beneath. He turned his serious face to look up at her; she narrowed her eyes but kept silent, and the party moved on, leaving the town behind.
‘Seems like trouble,’ said Nathan, back in the forest.
Winthrop manoeuvred his horse alongside them. ‘We – that is my brothers and sisters in Connecticut – are in the process of welcoming New Haven into our fold. But as you see, some of the townsfolk would prefer to remain apart.’
Mercia raised an eyebrow. ‘But you think differently, Governor?’
‘Let us just say I do not think they will have much choice.’ He sighed. ‘Now the King’s brother has taken New Amsterdam and renamed it for himself, they find themselves caught between his new lands and ours.’ He raised an eyebrow of his own. ‘I would hope they would prefer to join their fellow New Englanders than risk being absorbed by the royal advance.’
Nathan steadied his horse on the bumpy track. ‘I take it you have little confidence the Duke will keep to the lands he was granted?’
‘Already he has claimed Long Island. We have our charter, but still, our boundaries are somewhat porous. With the Dutch as our neighbours we managed, but with the Duke of York, well – you have met him, I believe.’
Mercia blew out her cheeks. ‘Indeed I have.’
He glanced at her askance. ‘What did you think?’
‘He was not happy when the King gave Nathan and me permission to sail here with his fleet. I do not know.’ She played with her reins. ‘He did not seem to care much for women. But he has a prize in New York.’
Winthrop nodded. ‘’Tis where it is sited, at the mouth of Hudson’s river. I do not think my cousins in Massachusetts Bay would care to hear me say so, Mrs Blakewood, but one day I think New York could grow greater than Boston itself. And if that happens – well. I want New Haven with us, and not with him.’
They rode a few minutes in quiet, listening to the strange bird calls trilling in the close-packed trees. The gnarled trunks were covered in beard-like moss, the air around them clear and fresh. Away from the town, Mercia felt a renewed shiver of apprehension after the morning’s incident, although she knew she was safe in the company of the governor.
She cleared the lump from her throat. ‘Nobody wants to speak of the Indians,’ she said. ‘But you seem to have an understanding with them, Governor. What did you and the – sachem is it? – talk of?’
Winthrop nodded sadly. ‘If you think the Duke is a problem, then the Indians are no less difficult. Not in themselves, you understand, for they are a people of no small nobility. But there are those among both them and us who are not so keen to live in harmony. Many would sooner wage war than have peace.’
‘We hear tales back in England,’ said Nathan. ‘In the coffee houses and the pamphlets. Probably most of it is untrue, but well.’ He glanced at Mercia. ‘They are not as savage as they say?’
‘Any more so than many Europeans?’ Winthrop smiled. ‘I should say we are all God’s children, all behaving in similar ways.’
‘What of that head?’ said Nicholas, riding just behind them. ‘I thought there was going to be a fight back there.’
‘That was … one of our own miscreants, I am afraid. A man named Atterley who thought he had licence to kill Indians whenever they strayed onto his land. Or what he said was his land.’ He sighed. ‘It is a difficult line we have to tread here, for the Indians claim they have right to the land, while my fellows seek to buy it, sometimes take it by force. Often there is conflict. That knife the sachem showed us was used to kill the tribe’s powwow. Their healer.’
‘And so they took their vengeance on Atterley,’ said Nathan.
‘In part. But mostly they think to remind us of our promises, that when one of ours is to blame for a crime then we root out the culprit and punish him. And their powwow was important, a great figure in their heathen devotions. They will not forgive so easily as that.’ Winthrop shuddered as a sudden gust of wind rose up. ‘My task is to delay that reckoning such that it never occurs.’
Nathan shook his head. ‘Even here, in this place of beauty, there is strife.’
‘Indeed our ways of life oft times resemble those in England. Think of the recent wars you had, family against family, Royalist against Parliamentarian.’ He pulled at his white neck collar. ‘But let us not dwell on such miseries. We will soon be in Hartford. I should rather you look around and enjoy the ride.’
Mercia was glad to accept the suggestion, interested as she was in the discussion, for as ever the journey fascinated her. Still, it was two bedraggled days more before they came to the end of their road. The final stretch took them along the Connecticut River for which Winthrop’s colony was named, and she was entranced by the majesty of the watercourse as it ambled amidst the cultivated fields of the townships that had sprung up along its banks. The few people who were travelling the road, or fishing in the river, doffed their hats to the governor as they passed by; she was impressed as he hailed them in return, seeming to know most of their names.
By the time they arrived in Hartford the sun had replaced the rain, domesticated pigs grunting their porcine welcome to the travellers who had crossed the ocean just a fortnight before. The principal town of Connecticut colony, Hartford was of a decent size, larger than New Haven but likewise centred on a well-kept green, its two-storey houses enjoying elongated plots set back from the few roads. As in the countryside, the townsfolk bowed to Winthrop in respect, then stared with interest at his unknown companions. Mercia had decided to forego the mourning clothes she had worn for the last six months for her father, but choice was limited, and she was still only wearing a simple grey dress. But she felt like a fine lady as she resisted the temptation to wave.
Then a commotion rang out, a portly man hurtling from a nearby doorway. Wheezing, he ran up to Winthrop, patting his horse’s flanks as though signalling him to stop.
‘Governor,’ he cried. He paused to catch his breath, resting his palms on his corpulent thighs. ‘I am glad you are returned.’
Winthrop reined in his horse, peering down from under his hat. ‘Were matters that complex in my absence, Peter?’ He tutted. ‘Speak, man. What is it?’
‘’Tis Meltwater.’ The man looked up, his red cheeks paling. ‘Their minister. He’s been found!’
Winthrop looked skywards. ‘Thank the Lord,’ he began. ‘I was beginning to fear—’
‘No.’ The frantic man cut him off. ‘It is to be feared.’
Winthrop frowned. ‘Well?’
‘He has been found in the river, Governor.’ The man swallowed. ‘Found dead. He has drowned.’
Chapter Two
‘I am sorry.’ Winthrop entered his small dining room, skirting the candlelit table where Mercia and Nathan were already seated. A middle-aged servant pulled out a splendid oaken chair at its head. ‘That was not the welcome to Hartford I had hoped for.’
She waited for him to sit. ‘We should be sorry for the poor minister. Such a terrible accident.’
‘Yes,’ said Winthrop, unfolding his napkin. ‘Very … peculiar.’ Mercia inclined her head, curious at his tone, but he merely smiled. ‘Shall we eat? My wife will join us shortly, when the food has been prepared to her liking. In the meantime, she wants you to start with this soup.’
On cue, the servant strode to the door, cutting off Nathan’s unasked question as he beckoned in a smartly dressed maid. Setting down Winthrop’s bowl and glass of ale first, her eyes flicked to Nathan as she placed the other two settings and left, the servant following close behind to pull shut the door.
‘This looks delicious.’ Mercia took in the thick broth before her, crammed with vegetables and chunks of meat. ‘What is it?’
‘Merely a potage, made with spices and beef.’ Winthrop picked up his spoon. ‘We thought you might be hungry.’
‘You are right there.’ Nathan inhaled deeply. ‘Mace, and – cinnamon? It smells wonderful.’
Winthrop’s face creased in delight. ‘Then please, enjoy.’
The diners fell silent as they slurped on their soup. When next Mercia looked up, she caught Winthrop looking at her with an inquisitive air.
‘I do not mean to stare,’ he said, ‘but – you look so like your father. I had noticed it in New York, of course, but only now you are sitting at a table like this, in a room such as this, has the resemblance seemed so striking.’
‘Let us be thankful the resemblance does not extend to his nose,’ joked Nathan, breaking off a chunk of bread. Across the table, Mercia gave the air a playful swipe.
Despite his words, Winthrop was still staring. ‘It is not merely his appearance you have inherited, I believe.’
‘It is … about the only thing I have inherited, Governor.’
His face saddened. ‘Again, I am sorry. I did not think.’
‘Do not be.’ She gave him a forgiving smile. ‘There is hope.’
‘More than hope,’ said Nathan. ‘The King has to help now.’
‘Then let us hope. And Governor, do not worry over your choice of words. I was being facetious.’
Winthrop relaxed his perturbed countenance. ‘In truth I was rather poorly attempting to render you a compliment. What I mean to say, is that you have proven you have your father’s intelligence likewise.’
She felt herself reddening. ‘Thank you. That gratifies me more than any comment about appearance.’
Winthrop nodded; there was something behind it, she thought, a decision taken. So she was not surprised when the governor pushed back his chair and stood, waving Nathan back into his seat as he rose from his own.
‘I merely wish to fetch something. Please, I will not be long.’
Mercia arched a questioning eyebrow as Winthrop left the room, but Nathan shrugged and fell back to eating his soup. She toyed with her own bowl, tracing patterns with her spoon as she thought about her father, a still unconquered sadness fighting her hunger for dominance. Then she felt a hand on her own; with no one else in the room, Nathan had reached across to comfort her.
‘Do not worry,’ he said. ‘Everything will turn out well.’
‘I hope so, Nat. It is … still hard.’
‘I know. But I am here to help.’
She smiled, grateful for his presence. Then a confident knock resounded at the door and she pulled her hand from his, turning to look. Expecting the servant, she was surprised when a young man’s head appeared round the door, even more so when his inquisitive expression morphed into a frown on catching her eye.
‘Is the governor not here?’ he said.
‘He will be back shortly. Would you care to wait?’
He looked her up and down, his broad-brimmed hat peppered with light rain. ‘I do not think so.’
‘Who are you talking to?’ A tall, brown-haired woman pushed past. ‘Oh, I see. Who are you?’
‘Good evening.’ Mercia nodded as she stood. ‘We are guests of the governor’s.’
Nathan rose and bowed. ‘Nathan Keyte.’
The woman shook the felt hat she was carrying in greeting. ‘You are not from these parts, I take it?’
The young man set his face, staring at the ceiling. ‘We do not have time for this, Clemency.’
She rolled her grey eyes. ‘As the governor is not here, I think we do. Where are you both from?’
‘By God’s truth!’ Letting out an expletive, the man turned to leave.
‘From England,’ said Mercia, undeterred.
Clemency frowned. ‘Not … recently arrived?’
‘Why, yes.’
‘England?’ In the doorway, the man stopped. ‘Surely not with the royal fleet?’
Nathan folded his arms. ‘What of it?’
The man marched into the room, his thin coat as dotted with rain spots as his hat. ‘Why are you here?’
‘As has been said, we are guests at the governor’s invitation.’ Nathan drew himself up, tugging at his collar to let the tip of his chest scar peek out through his shirt. ‘Who are you?’
‘Someone with more right to be here than you do, stranger.’ The man kept his gaze constant, clearly unconcerned at the Englishman’s superior height and bulk. ‘I should take care folk do not misconstrue your reason for being in New England. Unless perhaps they would be right?’
‘A welcoming fellow, aren’t you?’
‘Percy.’ Clemency cleared her throat. ‘Percy, perhaps we should leave these people be and wait outside?’
The man locked his eyes on Nathan a moment longer, but then he broke off, retreating towards the door. Clemency shook her head, mouthing an apology at Mercia before leaving behind him.
‘What was that about?’ said Nathan, staring at the now empty doorway.
‘I do not know.’ Mercia shook her head. ‘I thought you were about to start a fight there.’
‘With that whelp?’ He breathed out, relaxing his shoulders. ‘Besides, I don’t think the governor would appreciate blood on his table.’
‘Well, whoever he was, he did not like the idea we came with the fleet.’
‘I suppose why would he? People here are bound to be uneasy now the Duke of York’s soldiers are roaming the old Dutch lands to their west. The Duke has no love for New England and you can bet they know it.’ He sighed, rubbing at his neck. ‘But that does not excuse incivility to you.’
‘Indeed it does not.’ Winthrop came back through the doorway, clutching a piece of paper. ‘I am sorry about Mr Lavington. I have told him I will talk with him later – after my dinner with you.’ He smiled, the simple act dissipating the tension Mercia realised had filled the room. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘shall we resume our conversation? And please, do not think all New Englanders are as impatient as our friend there.’
Mercia eased herself into her chair. ‘We were musing he might be concerned at the Duke’s takeover of New York.’
‘Indeed he might, Mrs Blakewood. But let us discuss something of greater interest.’ He leant across the table to pass her the paper. ‘Tell me. What does the Blakewood mind make of this?’
Pushing aside her bowl and napkin, she studied the ragged parchment. The edges were tattered and dark, as though they had been soaked. Scrawled across the paper, in ink that had run somewhat, ran an unintelligible sequence of letters:
RNLENRDFRXSHI O
She looked up. ‘A puzzle?’
He inclined his head. ‘Assuredly that. It was found in the pockets of George Mason, the minister from Meltwater who drowned. I wondered what you thought of it?’
She ran her eyes over the letters. ‘Not much. It reminds me of the ciphers my father would employ when he was writing something he wanted kept secret.’
Winthrop leapt up. ‘Precisely what I thought. This is a code, but in heaven’s name I cannot fathom it or think why Mason would be carrying such a note. He was a simple man, by all accounts, devoted to his scripture, not to matters that would require such riddles as these. Peculiar, as I said before.’
She stared again at the strange sequence, her curiosity firmly piqued. ‘You have tried substitution, or a Caesar cipher, of course?’
Winthrop fairly beamed. ‘Briefly. But to no avail.’
Nathan peered over her shoulder. ‘A Caesar cipher?’
‘A method of encryption,’ she said, still looking at the paper. ‘Said to have been used by Julius Caesar himself. It moves each letter forward in the alphabet by a set amount.’ She twisted her head to look up at him. ‘For instance, if the Caesar cipher is two, then the letter A would be written in code as C. B would be written as D, and C as E, and so on.’
‘And if the cipher were three, then A would become D, and B would be E?’
‘That is right. But it does not apply here, apparently.’
‘No,’ sighed Winthrop. ‘I am not sure if that space between the I and the O is significant, but I cannot see how.’ He looked at her. ‘It does not remind you of anything your father would have used?’
She shook her head. ‘I am afraid not. But he only ever used such codes in two cases, as far as I know. When he was writing of a secret matter to his fellows in army or government, and when he was indulging his scientific interests. Not that he would ever share such knowledge with me.’
‘A pity.’ Winthrop was almost bouncing on his old heels. ‘But I think I hear someone coming, no doubt my wife.’ He retook his seat. ‘We can talk more of this another time.’
Hearing footsteps approach, Mercia turned to the door. A smiling woman soon entered, her simple black dress fronted by a sharp white apron. Although not young, her face sported fewer creases than Winthrop’s: Mercia guessed she would be around fifty years of age.
‘Good evening, everyone,’ she said. ‘I am delighted you are able to stay with us.’
Winthrop beamed with pleasure. ‘Mrs Blakewood, Mr Keyte, this is my wife Elizabeth.’
Elizabeth glanced at the paper on the table. ‘Discussing your theories again, John?’
He held out his hands. ‘They seem to find it interesting.’
‘I am glad.’ She gave a mock sigh. ‘But perhaps – not at the table.’
‘You are right. Mrs Blakewood, if you could …’ He waited for her to pass him the paper. ‘Thank you.’
Elizabeth took her seat. ‘Did you like the soup?’
‘Very much,’ said Mercia, as Nathan rushed to agree. ‘You had some yourself, I hope?’
‘In the kitchen. In a New England home we have to help out. Even the governor’s wife.’ The door creaked open, an unseen person’s arm holding it ajar while the two servants entered with food and fresh ale. ‘Now, we usually eat earlier, but you have had a long journey. Try this rabbit. We have fried it in breadcrumbs specially.’
The clattering of forks and knives betrayed the guests’ hunger. Nathan sliced into his meat with enthusiasm; Mercia took efforts to be more decorous as she relished the delicious gravy, but she enjoyed the meal all the same.
‘So tell me, Mrs Blakewood,’ said Elizabeth. ‘How fares England of late?’ She leant into the table. ‘And how fares it for we women? John has been back many times since we came here, but I have not returned since I arrived in, oh, ’35.’
Mercia considered her reply. ‘I suppose most women are hopeful we will no longer turn to war to solve our differences. War with ourselves, that is. The King seems secure enough on his throne now to prevent another such conflict. But I should say that women are carrying on much as before.’ She smiled. ‘The head of the household, in other words.’
‘A woman with opinions,’ said Elizabeth. ‘No wonder John admires your courage.’
Mercia blushed. ‘I am flattered.’
‘As well you should be. After all, you are dining with the most esteemed man in all of Connecticut. This year he was elected governor for the seventh time.’
Winthrop tutted. ‘Come now.’
‘My husband is too modest. He has done much to improve our lives here, as well as our relations with England. There was little love for us there when I left.’ She looked down at the table. ‘Even when Cromwell was in power, he did not seem to care much for us. And now, there is a King who must despise us. Tell me.’ She glanced up again. ‘Do you think we are safe?’
‘We women?’
‘We … Americans. We who sailed the ocean to be free to worship Christ.’
‘Oh.’ The ringlets of her hair bobbed as she shook her head. ‘In truth I do not know. It is for men like your husband to decide that.’
‘Then I am sure we will be well protected.’ Elizabeth smiled, regaining her spirits. ‘What with the Indians and the Dutch, I suppose one’s own countrymen are easy to handle.’
‘I think I prefer the Indians,’ said Winthrop. ‘Less … duplicitous.’
Elizabeth took a sip of her ale. ‘Enough of this. John has not had time to tell me what brought you to New York.’
‘Elizabeth—’ he began.
‘No.’ Mercia straightened her napkin. ‘It is well to talk of it. I came to America to restore my family home.’
Elizabeth rested her chin in her palm. ‘John knew your father, I think.’
‘We met from time to time,’ he agreed. ‘Whenever I was in England. We shared an affection, Mercia, for those scientific interests you mentioned just now.’
Mercia raised a surprised eyebrow. ‘I did not know you were so close.’
‘Not close, particularly, but we corresponded. He liked to be informed of developments.’
A happy image of her father working in his study came to her mind, but she could see her hostess’s eager face. She turned back to Elizabeth. ‘In short, then. You will know that the King’s father amassed a great collection of art.’
‘Ah, the first Charles.’ Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Now there is a man who mistrusted us. So many sailed here in the’30s because of him.’ She puffed out her cheeks. ‘The Great Migration.’
‘It meant you avoided the war.’ Mercia closed her eyes for a moment in remembrance, thinking as she often did of the family, of the friends, she had lost. ‘But my story.’ She took a deep breath. ‘When the troubles with Parliament began, and the old King moved his capital to Oxford, you may recall how he took his favourite paintings with him. Then long after, when Cromwell was in power, those same paintings were stolen. As his advisor, my father was appointed to investigate, but he found no trace.’ Her throat drying, she sipped at her ale. ‘The years went by and the monarchy returned, the old King’s son now on the throne. Anyone who had been close to Cromwell was in danger. My father kept to himself, but earlier this year he was arrested.’
Elizabeth reached out a hand. ‘I was very sad to hear what happened. From what John has said, he was a good man.’
‘A clever man too.’ She rubbed at a knot in the table. ‘Before his … execution … he shared his knowledge of the paintings with me, hoping if I could locate them somehow, I might regain favour with the King.’ She looked up. ‘Father may have been on Cromwell’s side but he was a practical man above all. He knew my uncle would seize our family’s manor house when he died. He reasoned the King could help me win it back.’
‘So Mercia being Mercia, she began to investigate,’ continued Nathan. ‘The paintings led us here, to America, and Mercia uncovered who had stolen them.’
She nodded. ‘The King was desperate to get his father’s art back. He advanced his invasion of Dutch America so we could sail here with his fleet to retrieve it. We succeeded at no small cost. But I have met my side of the bargain. Now it is for him to be true to his own word.’
‘He will,’ smiled Nathan. ‘Or King or no, he will answer to me.’
After supper, the two women left the room, leaving Winthrop to converse with Nathan over a case of rum he had acquired in New York. Entering what Mercia supposed was a parlour, a rustling from a fireside chair made her catch her breath: the exact same sound had preceded the end of that troubled Manhattan night from which she had barely managed to escape. But the woman who rose from the chair was nothing to do with the events of that place. Mercia hurried to hide her discomfort behind a querying smile, waiting to be formally introduced.
‘Mrs Carter.’ A tone of surprise – irritation perhaps – studded Elizabeth’s words. ‘I did not know you had stayed. The servants should have told me.’
It was the same brown-haired woman from before, her pale face burning in the light of the flames. ‘No, Elizabeth, I knew you had company. I was happy to wait.’
‘As ever you are a forgiving guest.’ Elizabeth turned to Mercia. ‘Mrs Blakewood, this is Clemency Carter. And this is Mercia Blakewood, the daughter of one of John’s old acquaintances.’
‘Mrs Blakewood.’ Clemency gave a tiny bow. ‘It is pleasing to meet you more properly. Although I have already heard something of you from your manservant, Nicholas. He was quite charming. Such … startling eyes.’ She shook her head. ‘I apologise for earlier. Percy can be a little eager.’
‘Thank you.’ Mercia noticed Elizabeth frowning at Clemency’s words. ‘The governor and his wife have been kind enough to allow us to stay while we visit Connecticut.’
Clemency smiled. ‘That man I saw is your husband?’
‘A friend. I have a son, but I am widowed.’
‘Then we have something in common already. I lost my husband too.’
Elizabeth reached down to stoke the fire with a poker; embers whirled into the room and up the chimney. ‘Well, you are very welcome here, Mrs Blakewood. ’Tis a blessing to have a child in the house once more.’ She pulled herself up, a supporting hand on her lower back. ‘Is all well in Meltwater, Clemency?’
She blew out through pursed lips. ‘As well as can be. Standfast and Renatus are vying to be minister now.’
‘That was expected.’ Elizabeth straightened her back. ‘You rode down with Standfast, I take it?’
She nodded. ‘Yesterday. He wanted to be the one to bring the news, but Percy and I had planned to come in any case.’
‘John only heard of George’s death this afternoon. It has shocked him somewhat.’
‘I was with him at the time,’ said Mercia. ‘You are from Meltwater also, Mrs Carter?’
Clemency waved a hand. ‘Call me Clemency. And yes, it was we sorry three who brought the news of Mason’s death here. There was rather a commotion when he was found in the river.’ She grasped the back of a leather-bound seat. ‘But enough of sadness. Shall we sit?’
As they settled into chairs Mercia looked around the compact parlour. Nothing like as plush as the sitting room even in her own small cottage at home, let alone the manor house she hoped to reclaim, the room was still fresh and pleasant. A dresser in the corner was stocked with fruits and plate, the dark walls lending the room a comfortable, wintery feel.
‘Clemency is one of John’s many women,’ Elizabeth was explaining. Mercia sat back, confused, and the older woman reddened. ‘I mean one of the women who distribute his medicines.’
‘Oh.’ Mercia relieved the awkwardness with a laugh. ‘This is to do with the governor’s scientific work?’ She inched her chair closer to the fire. ‘He seemed most enthusiastic about it earlier.’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Too enthusiastic, at times.’
‘He is the best physician in the whole of New England,’ said Clemency, straightening her green bodice. ‘Whatever he does with those minerals he takes from the ground, they have a marvellous effect on the sick. They cannot be expected to cure everyone, but by God’s truth they are better than anything else we have. I hand them out in Meltwater, as many other women do in their own towns.’
Intrigued, Mercia leant forwards. ‘Tell me more.’
Clemency smiled. ‘For a stranger, you are a curious woman. I like that.’
‘Please, if I am to call you Clemency, you must call me Mercia.’
‘That is an unusual name.’ She pursed her lips. ‘The ancient kingdom?’
‘Yes.’ Mercia tilted her head, surprised at Clemency’s knowledge. ‘The realm of the Anglo-Saxons. My father was so enthralled by them he named his own daughter after one of their places. But I think he found the name a beautiful one too.’
‘Indeed it is. It is a mystery of a name with a story to tell, a whole people behind it. Unlike some of our English names here, which merely hide a person’s true nature behind a trait wished on them by their parents.’
‘Clemency,’ admonished Elizabeth.
‘You do not suffer it.’ Clemency leant back in her chair, her arms draped down the sides. ‘John and Elizabeth, both strong names. Come to Meltwater, Mercia. We have some choice names there. Like mine, indeed. Clearly my parents wished me to have a clement character. But you will find there is more to me than that.’
‘Yet all names are merely translations,’ persisted Elizabeth. ‘My own is from the Hebrew tongue, for instance. It means God is my oath.’
‘Yes, and it will not be long before someone here calls their daughter God-is-my-oath Jameson or whatever. There is no magic in calling your child by a literal English name.’
‘Many people around you would disagree. They think it makes the truth plainer to God.’
‘Then I am glad I am not many people.’ She held out a hand. ‘Consider what a marvel your name is, deriving from El meaning God, and sheba, which means oath. But then see how sheba also means perfection, as well as the number seven, and so ’tis a masterpiece of a name, alluding to the perfection of God in creating his world in seven days.’
‘I am impressed.’ Mercia found herself warming to the woman. ‘I did not know that.’
Clemency raised an eyebrow. ‘You see, names that contain mysteries are much more interesting. But here I am in the minority.’ She edged her chair closer. ‘I am glad to meet you, Mercia Blakewood. I think we will get along very well.’
Chapter Three
Mercia slept well that night, tucked in a comfortable bed covered in thick linen, revelling in the pleasurable warmth of the newly laundered bedclothes. It was a welcome change after the five-day journey from New York, dozing in starts in makeshift tents under the open sky, even if she had enjoyed gazing at the stars with Winthrop, listening to his tales of the constellations. So she awoke the following morning refreshed, invigorated by the now familiar sound of New England birdsong as the American sunlight swept into her cosy room. In the distance, a muffled bell sounded out the hour: seven o’ clock, time to rise.
She was eager to get ready, for Clemency had said she would return early to the house, and she was anxious not to miss her. Throwing on one of the three dresses she had brought, a brown woollen skirt split down the front to reveal a black petticoat – she could still follow the fashions, even out here – she descended to find Nathan perched on a table edge, sipping a mug of milk.
She looked around. ‘Is Mrs Carter not here? She was to meet with Winthrop.’
‘Good morning to you, too. Who is Mrs Carter?’
‘The woman we saw last night, with that rude man.’ She glanced through the window into the backyard: the plot of land stretched on for a long way. ‘Has she been and gone?’
‘I don’t know. But the governor asked me to tell you he was in his workshop.’ He took another sip of his drink. ‘What shall we do today?’
‘Take Daniel to look around the town, I think.’ She pointed to Nathan’s mug. ‘Is there more of that?’
‘In the pitcher. ’Tis still warm.’ Nodding towards a white jug on the table, he set down his mug and filled another. Passing it over, his fingertips brushed against hers. ‘You are sure that is all you want to do?’
She took the mug from him. ‘What do you mean?’
He laughed. ‘You know what. Something about a code?’
‘Oh, that.’ She took a quick sip; the milk was thick and full of flavour. ‘I had not thought about it.’
He grinned. ‘Of course not.’
Draining her mug, she went to wake Daniel and made sure he ate, leaving him to talk with Nathan about his latest interest, the trees of New England – a fascinating subject until discussed to the exclusion of all else. Wondering what his young mind would fixate on next – native animals was a safe bet – she pulled a thin shawl around her neck and stepped out into the garden. She knew Winthrop had his workshop halfway down from the house; she betted she would find Clemency there too, assembling the medicines she was to take back to Meltwater.
It was a bright day, the still-green leaves shining in the sun under a patchy blue sky, wispy clouds sauntering from east to west. She stopped a while to take in her surroundings, the governor’s house behind, two others to either side of much smaller proportions, but all three the same two-storey height. She inhaled deeply: the air smelt fresh and untainted, the light scent of verdant grass tingling her nostrils. The smell of pine penetrated her being: it was as though she could taste it. For a moment she closed her eyes, soothing her spirit.
Opening her eyes once more, she squinted momentarily in the sunlight before continuing down the winding path. A large single-storey outbuilding sat to her left, smoke pouring from its stone-clad chimney. She caressed the rough wood of its door, clearly recently made. Everything here felt new, she thought, full of promise and hope, less crowded and complex than life back home.
Working the latch, she pushed open the door and entered, closing it behind her to keep in the warmth of the fire. Enough light came in through the two windows to see that the whole structure comprised one large room. Taking care not to knock over the several glass vials stacked across the floor, she approached the far side where two darkened figures were hunched over a bench. As she drew near she brushed against a conical bottle; it vibrated as it turned round on the spot, emitting a low sound that made the figures look up.
‘Mrs Blakewood,’ said Winthrop. Beside him Clemency widened her eyes in greeting. ‘Come closer, please. Now, if only Elizabeth were here I should feel as if I were poor Paris, unable to choose between you.’
‘See how he tests us?’ Clemency looked over his head and winked. ‘We debated the story of Paris last month, how he was forced to choose the fairest goddess.’
Mercia played along. ‘But which of the goddesses would we each be?’
Winthrop sucked in through his teeth. ‘I should say Elizabeth for Hera, Clemency for Aphrodite, and you, Mrs Blakewood, would be Athena.’
‘Indeed? And Governor, Mercia will suffice.’
‘I am honoured.’ He turned to Clemency. ‘You know the first time I saw Mrs—Mercia she was a baby in a cradle?’
‘Back in England?’
He nodded. ‘I had gone to her father’s house to discuss matters of philosophy, and, well – this.’ He held out his hands towards his workshop.
Clemency put hers on her hips. ‘And why does she get to be Athena?’
Winthrop tutted. ‘Because, Clemency, she is wise and intelligent and you are more controlled by your passions.’
Clemency laughed, a deep sound of happiness that made Mercia smile too. ‘I can be wise.’ She looked at Mercia. ‘Not that some of our menfolk would believe a woman so capable.’
‘My father always thought a woman had a certain place.’ Winthrop ran his finger down a table of sorts, avoiding their gaze. Glancing over his shoulder, Mercia was intrigued by a strange symbol dotted across the page that seemed somehow familiar. ‘And I agree with—no, wait a moment, I have not finished.’ He held up a quietening finger as the two women began to protest. ‘I believe everyone has unique responsibilities in God’s world. Where my father and I differ is I do not see such rigid distinctions. And yet clearly a woman’s mind is better suited to some tasks as a man’s is to others.’
‘Hmm.’ Clemency pursed her lips. ‘To needlework and child-rearing, no doubt.’
‘To other things as well.’ Winthrop held up a box and shook it. ‘Like medicine. You are a great doctress, Clemency.’
‘Is that one of your mixtures?’ Mercia leant in. ‘May I see?’
‘Of course.’ He untied the red ribbon that was keeping the small box closed and opened the lid, revealing a fine white powder within. ‘This is antimony. More specifically, ceruse of antimony. It causes the body to perspire and so drive out fever.’
She frowned. ‘Is not antimony poisonous?’
‘Yes, until an alchemist removes the impurities and makes it the exact opposite. It is a discovery such as this that excited your father so, as it excites me.’ He closed the box and turned to Clemency. ‘You know the dose?’
‘He always asks this,’ she sighed. ‘Although I have administered it a hundred times.’ She smiled at Winthrop. ‘Yes. One grain only as it is for a child.’
Mercia looked up. ‘A child is sick?’
Clemency nodded. ‘Praise-God Davison. Who deserves treatment in spite of his ridiculous name.’ At her side, Winthrop shook his head. ‘Now, Mercia,’ she continued. ‘I must attend to other errands, but I would like to see you again before I leave. Praise-God is sick but not in mortal danger.’ She began tying on her bonnet. ‘Will you meet me this evening?’
‘I would like that.’
‘Then I will see you later. Governor, if I may call on Mrs Blakewood at sunset, I will leave the antimony with you until then.’
‘I will put it with the other varieties and the saltpetre. I will give you extra to see Meltwater through the winter. You said you had antimony of copper enough?’
‘Most definitely.’ She paused. ‘And do not be concerned over – the other matter. It is in hand.’
Winthrop’s eyes flicked to Mercia and away again. ‘Very good.’
Clemency gave a slight bow and left, sending a cold draught whipping around the laboratory as she opened and closed the door. A wind had sprung up since Mercia had come in; some of the glass jars nearest the door jangled.
‘Perhaps a storm is brewing,’ said Winthrop.
‘It was fine weather when I was in the garden just now.’ She looked around the room, wondering what Clemency had meant about the other matter, but even more entranced by what she could see. ‘You described yourself just now as an alchemist. Is all this concerned with such endeavours?’
He beamed. ‘Indeed. I am proud to help the people with the discoveries I have found.’
‘So many vials and parchments. I never knew alchemy was so involved.’
‘Perhaps you thought it was all fools on a quest to turn lead into gold?’ He arched a grey eyebrow. ‘Did you think your father a fool?’
‘My father was the cleverest man I knew.’ She paused, saddened as the last image she had of him, standing grey but proud on the scaffold at Tower Hill, filled her mind; she shook the picture aside and concentrated on Winthrop, a man of roughly the same age. ‘How well did you know him? Did you discuss this?’
‘Matters like this.’ Winthrop folded his arms, leaning against the fireplace. ‘The last time was two years ago, when I was securing Connecticut’s new charter from the King.’ He smiled. ‘When I was not flattering the royal ego, I managed to visit friends across England. Sir Rowland was one of them.’
‘But you did not come to Halescott.’
‘No, we met in Oxford, not long after I was elected to the Royal Society.’ He scoffed. ‘They want me to be their colonial expert, to send them intricate details of America’s wilds. Well maybe I will, but I will not tell them anything that will hurt my people. I know the King’s brother is no friend to New England.’
‘But my father—’
Winthrop bowed. ‘I am sorry. Your father was a curious man. He wanted to know things, to understand the world. Cromwell must have valued his council.’
‘I think so.’ She looked again about her. ‘How involved was he in your work? I had no idea.’
He wandered to one of his overflowing shelves. ‘He was never one of the principal actors, but he was certainly interested.’ Taking a well-worn book from the shelf he placed it on the bench, opening it at a page near the front. ‘Take a look.’
‘’Tis a letter.’ She peered at the page. ‘In my father’s hand!’ She looked up at Winthrop, amazed. ‘But it is in some sort of code.’ She read the first word, or rather scanned it, for it was impossible to take it in:
JFDRJNCWWRBLZDTIYVGSPUOAIHCRBYICDHPBFHOY
She frowned. ‘I cannot make anything out.’
‘This volume is full of correspondence I have pasted in, all from alchemical practitioners across Europe and the New World. As we are dealing with God’s secrets, we must write to each other in code so the Devil cannot use our work to his own ends.’
‘I see.’ She leafed through a few pages of notes. On many the same strange familiar symbol she had already seen was repeated. ‘I confess I know little of alchemy, Governor, but I do seem to recognise this mark here.’
‘Ah.’ He smiled. ‘Do you recall its name?’
She pondered a moment, examining again the symbol, a crowned circle with a dot at its centre, the circle perched on a cross that nestled between two mounds.
‘Yes,’ she said eventually. ‘I think I might.’ She screwed up her forehead, thinking back to her childhood. ‘From one or two of my father’s books, among those he told me not to read.’
Winthrop laughed. ‘But which you looked at nonetheless.’
‘Of course. Although at that age I did not understand most of his library, the religious treatises and philosophical works. But I do remember this symbol. It was so … captivating.’ She tapped on a large depiction. ‘It is a monas.’
‘A monas hieroglyphica, to be exact. It is the very symbol of creation.’ Animated, Winthrop leapt to another workbench, taking up a paper and quill and beckoning her to watch. ‘The circle represents the heavens,’ he said, scrawling on the paper, ‘and the dot is the Earth.’ He jabbed a dot at the circle’s centre. ‘And this, is the moon.’ He intersected the top of the circle with an upside-down arch.
She glanced at the monas in the workbook. ‘What of the cross?’
He sketched an elongated cross beneath the circle. ‘The cross is quite naturally the cross of our Lord. But its four lines also represent the four elements of air, fire, water and earth.’
‘And the flourishes at the bottom?’
Winthrop finished by adding two adjoining semicircles, one each side of the bottom point of the cross; they had the appearance of two small hills. ‘This is the symbol we use for Aries, the first constellation of the zodiac.’
‘A most mysterious depiction.’
He looked at her. ‘Can you see anything else in the monas?’
‘I … do not think so.’
‘I suppose your father would not have taught you the signs of the metals.’
She pursed her lips. ‘I suppose not. Although … is not gold represented as a circle?’
‘Very good.’ Winthrop seemed impressed. ‘And silver is depicted as a crescent, like here at the top; copper is the circle and cross combined, and so on. If you look at the monas from different angles, you will see all the metals within it. And so also the signs of the planets, for their signs and those of the metals correspond.’ He looked up, his elderly eyes shining. ‘The monas is a perfect symbol of creation and alchemy.’
She shook her head. ‘And you devised this yourself?’
‘Oh no.’ Winthrop smiled. ‘It is a century old. But we alchemists are still searching for the hidden meanings of God’s world.’ He held up the box of antimony. ‘The Lord has allowed me to discover some morsels of use. I have found that minerals in the earth can have wonderful recuperative powers for the sick. But I have not been deemed worthy enough to uncover the two ultimate prizes, alas.’
‘And what are they?’
‘Why, the philosopher’s stone, and the alkahest.’ He rested his hands on the table, entwining his thin fingers. ‘The first will allow us to refine base metals into the purest gold and silver.’
‘So that is part of it.’
‘Indeed, but the aim is not merely to gain profit, even if so doing will help us support ourselves in our endeavours.’ He sighed. ‘Of course there are many who do seek financial gain through the stone. But then the second of the prizes, the alkahest, is of universal good, for it is the ultimate elixir. Once discovered, the alkahest will cure all sickness, and nobody will be infirm or die of illness again.’
She stared at him. ‘You believe that is possible?’
‘Oh yes.’ Winthrop was earnest. ‘One day we will uncover these wonders. Adam knew them before his fall from Eden, but God hid them until the time shall come for us to reveal them anew. Indeed it is said that the Second Coming of Christ will be preceded by a time of great discovery. The Book of Daniel makes clear that at the time of the end, many shall run to and fro, and knowledge shall be increased.’ He turned back to his workbook. ‘That letter of your father’s.’ He flicked through the pages to find the correct spot. ‘It was the alkahest that encouraged him the most. Here, he reports meeting a man who claimed its discovery. But his next said the man was a charlatan, an all too common occurrence.’
She looked again at the unintelligible page. ‘How do you decipher it?’
Winthrop smiled; on a separate piece of paper he wrote down the first jumble of letters beside another much smaller sequence: NCUYNB.
‘This would be your Christian name in the same code. Let me know when you have worked it out.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘You wish to see if I am worthy myself?’
‘A simple riddle, that is all.’ He inclined his head. ‘Have you thought further about the code found on Meltwater’s minister?’
‘Oh, a little.’ Scraps of parchment in her bedroom would argue otherwise; they were full of attempts at interpreting what the code might mean. ‘Have you?’
‘Yes, but I am no closer to understanding it. John Lavington, Meltwater’s magistrate, is an alchemist. It may be the minister was simply carrying some workings of his.’
‘Lavington?’ She blinked, trying to recall where she had heard the name before. ‘Oh yes. That man from last night was named Lavington.’
‘That was John Lavington’s son, Perseverance. He and Clemency came from Meltwater together, on some business of theirs.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But never mind that.’
Mercia waited for him to elaborate, but he remained silent, busying himself with his notebook. ‘Another alchemist,’ she said at last.
Winthrop laughed. ‘We are everywhere. Indeed there is another young man in Hartford now with similar interests. Amery Oldfield. Lavington has appointed him to be Meltwater’s very first schoolmaster.’
‘The town is that new?’
‘Four years old, and on the edge of our lands. I only gave Lavington permission to found it as he wanted to search the frontier for God’s secrets.’ He scratched his cheek. ‘That, and to stop Massachusetts from sneaking round us from the north by claiming that territory for their own.’ He smiled. ‘Well, Mercia. I will write to John myself to see if he knows anything further. I do not think the constable there has much respect for him, otherwise the code paper would still be in his hands instead of mine, but I have more faith.’ Without setting a hand on her back, he held his arm behind her and shepherded her across the room. ‘Now stop talking to this old man and go and see Hartford. Take a look at what we have accomplished. I am sure you will find it good.’
Feeling buoyant, Mercia fetched Daniel and Nathan and set off into Hartford, indulging her son by letting him skip a little way in front. But the trio did not get far before a commotion near the house arrested their attention and she called Daniel back to her side. A wild-eyed man was balancing on a picket fence, shouting down at a small crowd. His physical dexterity was impressive, his words less so.
‘We must be ready!’ he cried. ‘The Second Coming is nearly upon us!’
‘Yes, yes,’ sighed an elderly woman in his audience. ‘So you keep saying. But when will it come?’
‘Do not mock,’ he shrilled. ‘The Lord will appear when He is ready. He will descend from heaven and judge us. Each of us!’ He looked around him. ‘And you, lady, He will judge most of all! See, she has come, and He will find her wanting!’
Mercia shook her head, feeling pity for the old woman who had incurred the speaker’s wrath. But then she looked up at the preacher and took an involuntary step back, for he was not pointing his shaking hand at his audience, but at her.
‘You bring calamity to this land,’ he cried. ‘Over the ocean you have come, and like the ancient Flood that destroyed all things, the waters you travelled will surely destroy us now.’ His whole body began to shake in rage. ‘Leave us, Mercia Blakewood, for you bring naught but death!’
