A Dangerous Justice – John Pilkington

He had never been a man who was easily surprised, but at sight of me when I emerged hungry, shoeless, bedraggled and filled with shame, his eyes widened. ‘By all that’s holy, Belstrang… What in God’s name has become of you?’ I made no reply; I could have kissed him as if he were a brother, but I merely shook my head. ‘Your feet…’ He looked down, as I made my way towards him over the cobbles in my stockings. ‘This is cruel usage indeed.’

‘But it’s over,’ I said, attempting a smile. ‘Thanks to you, in your goodness…’ I put out my hand. ‘I’m in your debt, John Druett, in more ways than you know.’ ‘I’m curious to hear about it,’ he said as we shook hands. ‘But that can wait. Will you come to my house, where my servants will attend you?’ ‘Most gladly,’ I answered. ‘If you’re not too troubled by my slowness of pace.’ I indicated my stockings, filthy from my walk through the prison and now soaking wet.

‘Perhaps we might find a fripperer’s stall, and buy a cheap pair of shoes…’ ‘I’ll not hear of such,’ Druett said at once. ‘My horse is nearby – you’ll ride, and I’ll walk beside you.’ He indicated the grim frontage of the Compter. ‘Let’s get ourselves away from here.’ Which we did, and despite the cold rain that fell, it was a most welcome ride on Druett’s good roan horse.

Within the half hour we had made our way by Lad Lane and Catte Street, past Basinghall to crowded Lothbury and then into Coleman Street, to his house near the Armourers’ Hall. Here, still weak from my brief ordeal, I was brought indoors and made welcome by Frances Druett; at sight of her, I almost sagged with relief.

‘Robert…?’ Her smile fading, she looked me up and down. ‘What’s this – have you been robbed?’ ‘I have, dear Frances,’ I answered, ‘yet of nothing that can’t be replaced. As for my pride, and a good deal of my trust: those, I fear, will not be so easily restored.’ Seeing her come forward to embrace me, I confess I wept a little.

That is how low I’d been brought: to fall like a milksop onto a woman’s shoulder and stain her gown with my tears. Still, it was a blessed day, which lifted my spirits greatly.

I cannot rest until I have told of my Year of Astonishment. There is a need in people, I find, for certainty. Many seek it in their faith, for which they will fight to their last breath. For myself, having passed my three-score years, I have come now to believe only one thing of certainty, apart from death which comes to all: that the essence of life is movement.

All is in motion: the heavenly spheres, the seasons, the migrating birds, the seas, even the land. Do we not hear of hills rearing up and breaking apart, in the land of the Great Turk? And that our very blood is in flux about our bodies, so that when we expire it ceases to flow? Hence, movement is all; when you stop moving, you begin to die. By such logic, some might say that in my autumnal years I have condemned myself, living a sedentary life at my late father’s house.

And yet, who can truly foresee anything? Martin Luther, I heard, foretold that the world would end in the year 1600, and plainly it did not. Certain sages, in the time of Henry VIII, predicted an apocalypse in 1624, and since that year is yet to come, a cautious man might take heed. Myself, I was seldom cautious, or temperate, and lacking in those qualities desirous in a magistrate, it is a wonder I ever found myself appointed to such a position.

Away with your puff and pedantry, the younger Robert Belstrang would say – I’ve no tolerance for such. Mark my alliteration: I could have been a poet, as some fawning flatterer who stood before me once said. I lack the patience, was my reply. And the fine is five shillings.

But those were my days of certainty. And I must come now to my purpose, which is to speak of the upheaval of 1616: my Year of Astonishment. It began on a chill March day, when at a late hour a visitor arrived at Thirldon, the Belstrang house a short ride west of Worcester.

Childers, having lit candles and departed, returned to my private parlour with news that a neighbour was come, in a pitiable state, asking to see me on a matter of urgency. The neighbour, who lived only four miles away but was seldom seen, was John Jessop, a known recusant; or, as some might say, a wretched and impoverished papist.

‘A pitiable state? What do you mean?’ I enquired. ‘In distress… agitated… Forgive me, I’m short on synonyms today,’ my steward said. His insolence, in recent years, had come to a point where another master might have thrown him out of service, notwithstanding his age and the fact that he had served my father loyally for many decades.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

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• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 233
• Language: English (en)

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• Total Words: 70,998
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