Read Online The Sweet Smell of Decay by Paul Lawrence - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Lawrence
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Dowling’s gaze. ‘I was a soldier. I fought for the Republic. Paid for it ever since.’
‘Not
just
a Republican, though – is that not right, Joyce?’ What was the butcher talking about now?
‘No,’ Joyce replied after a lengthy pause, ‘I was a Leveller besides.’ A Leveller?
‘God has revealed the way of eternal salvation, only to the individual faith of each man, and demands that any man who wishes to be saved should work out his beliefs for himself,’ Dowling recited. These words were written by Milton, and reflected a philosophy that had been outlawed after the Restoration. Milton was still in prison somewhere.
Joyce smiled, his head leaning back against the cradle of the chair. Still he held the bread in his lap. ‘Abel’s art made the earth more fruitful than Cain, thereupon Cain wouldtake Abel’s labour away from him by force.’
‘Kingly government may well be called the government of highwaymen.’ Dowling leant forward speaking the words carefully. I listened hard to see if any were close that might hear – this was treasonous talk and I rather wished Dowling would show more discretion. The Levellers were a raggedy bunch of fanatics that had been led by a man called John Lilburne, another extreme lunatic, a dangerous man whose views were rejected even by Cromwell. After many years in prison, he died in poverty seven years before. Pity. He would have got on well with Prynne.
‘Aye, I was one of Lilburne’s men. And I still believe that every man should be free and that he has no need of a King.’ Joyce stuck out his chin defiantly. As if I cared what he believed. Then he grimaced and looked out the window at the cold grey sky. He shook his head and wiped at his eye. ‘I was a fine man once. Had a house and land and a fine wife.’
Now he was levelled. ‘Where is she now?’
He bowed his head. ‘She fell when carrying a child. They say her blood went bad and poisoned the baby. She was ill for a while with wandering womb and died when it got to her head. That was twenty years ago.’ We let him reflect in silence for a while. ‘A long time ago.’
‘You fought for Cromwell, sir,’ said Dowling.
‘I fought for England and for God,’ Joyce corrected him, ‘against the man of blood.’ The man of blood was a name that some had bestowed upon Charles I before they chopped his head off to prove the point.
‘I fought at Stamford, Gainsborough and Winceby. And Marston Moor. It was at Marston Moor I was wounded.’ He leant forward and pointed to the back of his head. There was abare patch of skin about the size of a man’s hand with no hair growing on it. The skin was ridged and red like the surface of an angry sea at dusk. ‘I should have died at Marston Moor.’ He hawked and spat into the sawdust. ‘It was summer, though ye wouldn’t know it for all the rain that fell. The rye fields were like bogs, the water filled our shoes and sat next to our skin. We stood on the left of Marston Field with Manchester’s footmen to the right of us, and the Scots on horses behind. We stood there shivering for hours, thinking of putting up camp, when the heavens opened up again, buckets of black water pouring on our heads. We were sure that all would stand down until the next day. Then late in the evening while there was still light, the Protector led us in a charge. Cavaliers met us halfway, but we went through them like blades. Then they had us from the flank but we beat them away besides, then went back and rescued Fairfax. It was a great victory for us. Near seven thousand of them were fallen, so it is said, less than three hundred of us. But numbers don’t tell all.’
‘What else, sir?’
‘My horse was shot away with a bullet, and it fell onto me. They took me off the field and carried me back home. They made two holes in my head, but it didn’t do no good.’ He sighed. ‘I was ill for a very long time, and good for nothing when I did recover.’
‘You live here in London
‘Not
just
a Republican, though – is that not right, Joyce?’ What was the butcher talking about now?
‘No,’ Joyce replied after a lengthy pause, ‘I was a Leveller besides.’ A Leveller?
‘God has revealed the way of eternal salvation, only to the individual faith of each man, and demands that any man who wishes to be saved should work out his beliefs for himself,’ Dowling recited. These words were written by Milton, and reflected a philosophy that had been outlawed after the Restoration. Milton was still in prison somewhere.
Joyce smiled, his head leaning back against the cradle of the chair. Still he held the bread in his lap. ‘Abel’s art made the earth more fruitful than Cain, thereupon Cain wouldtake Abel’s labour away from him by force.’
‘Kingly government may well be called the government of highwaymen.’ Dowling leant forward speaking the words carefully. I listened hard to see if any were close that might hear – this was treasonous talk and I rather wished Dowling would show more discretion. The Levellers were a raggedy bunch of fanatics that had been led by a man called John Lilburne, another extreme lunatic, a dangerous man whose views were rejected even by Cromwell. After many years in prison, he died in poverty seven years before. Pity. He would have got on well with Prynne.
‘Aye, I was one of Lilburne’s men. And I still believe that every man should be free and that he has no need of a King.’ Joyce stuck out his chin defiantly. As if I cared what he believed. Then he grimaced and looked out the window at the cold grey sky. He shook his head and wiped at his eye. ‘I was a fine man once. Had a house and land and a fine wife.’
Now he was levelled. ‘Where is she now?’
He bowed his head. ‘She fell when carrying a child. They say her blood went bad and poisoned the baby. She was ill for a while with wandering womb and died when it got to her head. That was twenty years ago.’ We let him reflect in silence for a while. ‘A long time ago.’
‘You fought for Cromwell, sir,’ said Dowling.
‘I fought for England and for God,’ Joyce corrected him, ‘against the man of blood.’ The man of blood was a name that some had bestowed upon Charles I before they chopped his head off to prove the point.
‘I fought at Stamford, Gainsborough and Winceby. And Marston Moor. It was at Marston Moor I was wounded.’ He leant forward and pointed to the back of his head. There was abare patch of skin about the size of a man’s hand with no hair growing on it. The skin was ridged and red like the surface of an angry sea at dusk. ‘I should have died at Marston Moor.’ He hawked and spat into the sawdust. ‘It was summer, though ye wouldn’t know it for all the rain that fell. The rye fields were like bogs, the water filled our shoes and sat next to our skin. We stood on the left of Marston Field with Manchester’s footmen to the right of us, and the Scots on horses behind. We stood there shivering for hours, thinking of putting up camp, when the heavens opened up again, buckets of black water pouring on our heads. We were sure that all would stand down until the next day. Then late in the evening while there was still light, the Protector led us in a charge. Cavaliers met us halfway, but we went through them like blades. Then they had us from the flank but we beat them away besides, then went back and rescued Fairfax. It was a great victory for us. Near seven thousand of them were fallen, so it is said, less than three hundred of us. But numbers don’t tell all.’
‘What else, sir?’
‘My horse was shot away with a bullet, and it fell onto me. They took me off the field and carried me back home. They made two holes in my head, but it didn’t do no good.’ He sighed. ‘I was ill for a very long time, and good for nothing when I did recover.’
‘You live here in London
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