The Butterfly in Amber Read online

  Emilia touched the golden coin hanging from her bracelet. Luck, magic, providence, faith – Emilia did not know its true name. She had seen it manifest in the lives of those around her, though, and she had seen what happened when it was lost. She did not want to take their luck away from those she loved. So, one by one, Emilia had given the charms back to those who had trusted her.

  She had given Felipe back the silver horse that first day after the storm. She wanted no argument as to who Alida really belonged to. Felipe had taken it nonchalantly, but she saw him rub it with his thumb before he gave it back to his mother. She thought he would not dismiss its powers so blithely now. The Hearnes had agreed to waive their claim to a bride price in return for the promise of Alida’s first foal, which was why Beatrice and Sebastien were able to celebrate their wedding so soon.

  Gypsy Joe had not wanted to take back the silver sprig of rue. Emilia understood why. For him, as for her, it would always be tainted with the bitter whiff of witchcraft. ‘Give it to Daisy,’ she said. ‘It’ll bring her luck.’

  ‘We could all do with a bit of that,’ Joe replied and tucked the charm away in his wallet.

  She had found it hard to give Stevo Smith back his lightning bolt charm. He was so big, so hairy, and so grim, and she could not forget the story of how Van had come to be so dreadfully scarred. Stevo had taken it silently, with a curt nod of acknowledgement, and he wore it now about his neck, half hidden in the thick black hairs on his chest.

  When she had given Milosh the smuggler back his cat’s eye shell, he had smiled at her and patted her cheek with his rough, dark hand, giving her the little shell she had given him, only two weeks earlier. ‘For you to hang in your ear like mine, darling girl,’ he had said. Emilia had smiled in true delight, seeing this as a gift not only from Milosh, but from poor, restless John, kept locked in a gilded cage. She could only hope that life would grow easier for him now too, and that he could be a doctor, or an inventor, or a botanist, whatever he wanted to be. She wore the earring now and often fingered it, loving its curious green glow, like a wide-open eye.

  The butterfly in amber had gone back to London with Milosh, to be surreptitiously given to Obedience. A letter had arrived from her a few days later, sent care of the Squire of Norwood.

  Tom had read it to them.

  ‘I do hope all is well with you. We are deeply distressed by the death of our Lord Protector, and prudence – or Faith – has dictated that we leave this poor, benighted country and try our luck in other lands. I write this in haste from the deck of our ship, for it will soon set sail and I do not think I can trust to the post from the New World. Aye, it is true! We sail for America this afternoon. It has all happened so fast, our heads are in a whirl.

  Here is a very odd thing I thought might interest you. There is a man sailing with us that my father is convinced was an old acquaintance of his, the pastor of Kingston-Upon-Thames. Is this not the man who was responsible for your family’s incarceration? You only called him ‘Fishface’ to me and indeed he does have a face like a fish, with pale, goggling eyes and practically no lips at all. He is very cold to my father, and denies they have ever met before, and indeed he has a different name from that which my father remembers. I would not mention it, except that he is much struck with my mother – who looks a lot like you, I’ve always thought, Emilia. He’s forever staring at her, and quizzing her about her background. My mother dislikes him very much, but I fear we shall see a great deal of him on this journey, and when we finally reach our destination of Salem, Massachusetts. It seems he is taking up the position of pastor there. I’m not looking forward to that!

  Thank you so much for the lovely little jewel that you sent me. It was clever of you to hide it in a book of sermons supposedly sent by my friend Lamentation. I’m guessing I should keep it hidden from both my mother and my father. Did it really belong to my grandmother? I didn’t even know I had one! It is a beautiful stone, full of sunshine. I do wonder how it came to have a butterfly inside, but I am sure I will find a book one day to tell me. I have strung it about my neck, next to my heart, in memory of you both, my dear cousins.

  Love, your not-so-obedient Beedee.

  PS The name of our new home, Salem, means “peace”, which all sounds very boring. However, I am hopeful we shall have some adventures when we get there!’

  This letter had caused a great deal of discussion among the family. Everyone had feared the spectre of a vengeful pastor, yet no one had been able to discover what had happened to him after the night of the storm. He had just seemed to disappear.

  ‘He was probably so embarrassed at being found locked up in his own scold’s bridle that he felt he had to flee the country,’ Emilia cried.

  Beatrice, for once, had no compassion. ‘Serves him right, the slimy snake,’ she said.

  That had left only Coldham the thief-taker to haunt their nightmares. Yet his fate was the most strange of all. It seemed he had joined a pious group of religious dissidents, called the Society of Friends. Others called them the Quakers, for they were so shaken by their experience with the Inner Light that they often quivered and quaked all over. It seemed Coldham had become an inspiration to those who gathered in their meetings, seeming to be touched by God. Gerard Winstanley, the Leveller who had befriended Noah in prison, had heard Coldham speak, and had been greatly moved, to the extent that he went often to Quaker meetings in the hope of hearing this strange, crippled, lightning-scorched man speak.

  The thought of this filled Emilia with wonder. She rubbed her thumb over the golden coin. Light, luck and magic . . .

  ‘Baba, are you sure?’ she burst out. ‘That I can keep your charm, I mean? You really don’t want it back?’

  Her grandmother shook her head. ‘It’s yours now, Milly,’ she said. ‘I think you’ve earnt it, don’t you?’

  Emilia could only smile joyfully, and give her grandmother a hug and a kiss.

  As she skipped towards the caravans, shouts caught her attention. She glanced towards the clearing, and smiled. Romping along the grass like a cheeky cub, the ball tucked under her arm, was Sweetheart. The old bear was not as nimble as she once was. She limped where once she had galumphed. Uncle Ruben had found eight bullets in her hide, and thought it was a miracle that she had managed to survive. No one knew how she had got away from the soldiers, that night at Ham House; all they knew was that she had been terrorising households around Richmond for some days, stealing apples, smashing down beehives and begging for ale at the local inn. The news of a bear roaming around Richmond had taken some time to reach Norwood. By the time Uncle Ruben had got there, she was very cross and inclined to sulk. It had taken a whole string of fish and a small barrel of ale to restore her to good temper, and several more days for her to fully recover from the bullet wounds.

  ‘No doubt about it, she’s a tough old bear,’ Ruben said about thirty times a day.

  Now Sweetheart roared with rage as Luka tried to wrest the ball away from her. She reared up on her hind legs, clasping the ball to her chest, while the men moaned and clutched their heads and entreated her to let it go.

  Zizi leapt up Sweetheart’s great length, seized the ring in the bear’s snout and tugged it viciously. Sweetheart bellowed, and dropped the ball so she could grasp her sore nose with both paws. Zizi leapt after the ball, seized it in her tiny paws, and took it straight to Luka, as always.

  ‘Unfair!’ Ruben shouted. ‘Interference with the bear!’

  ‘All’s fair in love and war!’ Luka called back, running full pelt down the glade towards his goal, marked out with a couple of rocks. ‘Why do you think I always play with Zizi?’

  ‘Kick it to me!’ Van shrieked, jumping up and down, his hood fallen back, his scars forgotten.

  Luka aimed a swift shot at him, and Van clumsily fielded the ball with his foot; then, as Ruben and Felipe and Tom converged on him like arrows, quickly kicked it through the goal.

  Cheers erupted from Luka and Stevo and Father Plummer – playing
with his robe hitched up above his knees – while Tom groaned and fell to his knees in the grass, banging his head. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he cried. ‘Zizi should be banned!’

  Emilia smiled and went on to the campfire, where Beatrice was getting ready for her wedding, attended by the romni. Old Janka was binding back her long hair with a red scarf, and Julisa was tying up the sash of her embroidered skirts. Fairnette sat peeling potatoes nearby, with Noah curled up on a rug beside her, drinking a posset of herbs and honey she had made for him. The little boy was still thin and pale, but he was so happy to be back in the forest, with soft grass beneath his questing feet and Rollo by his side again, that a smile was never far from his lips. Gypsy Joe was busy with Father Plummer and Lord Harry, setting up the barrels of wine for the night’s festivities, while Mimi, Sabina and Lena were being taught how to stuff cabbage leaves with rice and herbs. Other women were plucking pheasants, skinning rabbits or slicing vegetables. The feast promised to be the best they had ever had!

  A whole lamb was roasting over the fire, given to the gypsies by Sir Hugh Whitehorse in gratitude to Luka and Emilia for their help in rescuing the Duke of Ormonde and saving Tom’s life. He had also brought down a brace of chickens and a sack of potatoes, and a whole barrel of fine wine, which the men had already broached and declared an excellent drop.

  Rather to the Finch family’s discomfort, Sir Hugh had offered them a rundown cottage in the village to live in, and regular employment on the manor farm. They had not wanted to offend him, when he had always been kind enough to let them camp out in the forest, but Jacob shook his head, and said, ‘Thank you kindly, sir, but I think we’ll stay where we are.’

  ‘But why?’ Tom said, obviously taken aback and disappointed. ‘Your caravans are so small, so dark. They leak when it rains. You’re hungry more often than not. Why would you not take a house when it’s offered to you?’

  ‘We’re Rom,’ Luka said shortly.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ Tom said.

  ‘I don’t understand why you would stay shut up in a stuffy old house when you could be travelling where the wind takes you,’ Luka flashed back.

  ‘Well, when you put it like that . . .’ Tom laughed.

  ‘We’re wanderers on this earth. Our hearts are full of wonder, and our souls are deep with dreams,’ Emilia said softly, translating the words that had been engraved upon her heart since she was a baby.

  Tom gazed at her in surprise. She grinned at him. ‘You wouldn’t like it, Tom. Well, not in winter, anyway.’

  ‘No, that’s for sure,’ he replied. ‘Well, Father says to tell you that you and your family are always welcome on our land.’

  ‘Could he put it in writing for us?’ Luka asked, in earnest despite his flashing grin.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Tom replied solemnly. ‘And I’ll get him to ask the pastor to put you in the parish records too. No more getting arrested for vagrancy!’

  The sun had set, and a pleasing smell of roast lamb filled the clearing. Once the moon had risen, the wedding would begin. Sebastien and Beatrice would eat bread dribbled with their own blood and swear to live by the three laws of the Rom. Only then would the feasting and music and dancing begin. Emilia could hardly wait.

  Milosh the smuggler and his men appeared as soon as it was dark, their long string of ponies walking as silently as cats on their muffled hooves. Milosh had brought gifts – a fine silken quilt for the married couple, embroidered in France; a cask of brandy for the groom’s father; a long, dark wig for Van, just like the king’s, as he had promised Emilia; a new crystal ball, not so large and clear as Baba’s lost one, but still round and heavy and full of promise; and for Luka, a new violin from Italy, sweet and curved and golden.

  ‘Milly told me about how you gave away your old one to Joe’s nephew, who hadn’t spoken a word since his father died,’ Milosh said with his crooked grin. ‘That was a good thing to do.’

  ‘But . . . it must have cost a fortune,’ Luka said, hardly daring to touch it.

  ‘I got it from a Spaniard in return for some cannon that Stevo gave me,’ Milosh said. ‘He wanted to get you something, to say thank you for all you’ve done for Van.’

  Emilia cast a wondering look at Stevo, a dark hulking shadow at the edge of the merry group. He nodded his head to her, and she saw a brief flash of a smile from the midst of his thicket of beard.

  Luka, speechless, clutched the violin to him, stroking its svelte shape; then he lifted it to his chin, drew the bow over its strings, and began to play. Never had he played so beautifully, a tune that made you want to weep and smile at once. Everyone fell silent, spellbound. There was only the firelight dancing in the leaves, the moonlight gleaming upon the water, the circle of rapt faces, listening as the music lilted and swayed and danced. Emilia swallowed a lump in her throat. She thought of her mother and her father, wishing they could be here to see Beatrice, so beautiful in her happiness. She felt a small hand grope for hers. It was Noah, tears bright in his sightless eyes.

  A new music wove its silver cadences into the violin’s cavatina, a long fall of warbling notes, then a high whistling crescendo. A nightingale had flown down out of the darkness and was perched on a branch above Luka’s head. Small and plain and brown, its throat swelled with the largeness of its song. Luka’s eyes were shining, his face full of joy, as he and his violin wrought their own kind of magic.

  ‘When your father Amberline played, the birds flew down out of the trees to listen,’ Maggie said softly.

  ‘I thought that was just a story,’ Emilia whispered back.

  ‘There is often more truth in stories than you know, darling girl,’ Maggie replied.

  Emilia nodded, knowing this to be true.

  The Facts behind the Fiction

  There was indeed a great hurricane on the 30th August 1658, and many writers interpreted it as a harbinger for Cromwell’s death. Samuel Butler wrote:

  ‘Tossed in a furious hurricane,

  Did Oliver give up his reign.’

  After his death, his son Richard ruled for a short while, but so badly he was eventually hustled away, giving birth to the expression ‘Tumbledown Dick’.

  King Charles II was playing tennis when he heard the news of Cromwell’s death. Twenty months later – on the 29th May 1660, the day of his thirtieth birthday – he rode back into London through cheering crowds, his throne and his crown restored.

  King Charles II did indeed have the bodies of Cromwell and his right-hand men dug up, hanged in chains at Tyburn Hill, then hacked into quarters. It took the axeman eight blows to sever Cromwell’s mummified head from his body. It was set on a pole upon the roof of the palace at Whitehall, gazing at the spot where King Charles I had been beheaded, nine years earlier.

  Two years later Cromwell’s head mysteriously disappeared. No one quite knows the truth, but one story goes it fell off in a storm and then was used as a football by some street urchins. It reappeared some years later as a curiosity in a circus show (but failed to make money) and was eventually sold. In the 1800s a parson bought Cromwell’s head for the princely sum of £200 (just to give you an idea of its value, you could have bought a house for about £50 pounds at that time).

  There was some argument that the purchased head could not really be Cromwell’s, but it was ruled genuine as it had a wart above the right eye just as Cromwell did (Cromwell had famously demanded that he be painted ‘warts and all’, unlike most court portraits that flattered the subject). Some generations later, in the 1930s, the descendant of the pastor who had bought the head allowed extensive scientific examination of it which confirmed it was indeed the mummified head of Oliver Cromwell. It was subsequently given to Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, where it was buried in a secret location on the 25th March 1960 – almost exactly three hundred years after the Lord Protector was first dug up.

  Cromwell was not the only one to suffer the vengeance of the restored king. Charles II also arrested many of the men who had signed his father’s
execution order. Most of them died the terrible punishment for traitors – death by hanging, drawing and quartering. A few escaped to Europe or to America but were hunted down by vengeful Royalists and murdered. Only a few of the fifty-nine regicides managed to escape.

  Apart from this terrible and bloody vengeance, King Charles II worked hard to bring peace and prosperity to England. He did his best to work with his puritanical parliament, and allowed his kingly powers to be greatly curbed (Cromwell actually had more power in England than King Charles II ever had). Charles II rewarded those who had helped him, and did not punish those who had stood against him. For the rest of his rule, England was as peaceful as a land could be in those turbulent times.

  Meanwhile, no one ever wondered aloud what had caused the death of the Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwell. Yet at the time Cromwell’s sickness caused a great deal of puzzlement, for even though he was known to suffer from English malaria – called ague at the time – this was not a fatal illness, and many of his symptoms – especially the agonising pains and vomiting – were not consistent with ague. Many people were suspicious, and a few suggested that he had been the victim of witchcraft or poison.

  Certainly, it was not the first time Cromwell had faced the danger of assassination. It had become clear to the Royalists that the only way the king could ever be returned to his throne was if Cromwell should die. One of the exiled king’s secretaries of state wrote at the time, ‘There will be little hope for the K to do much good in order to his Restoration until that villain be knockt in the head’, and Cromwell’s doctor, George Bate, wrote how Cromwell ‘never was at ease’ and was ‘suspicious of all Strangers, especially if they seemed joyful’. Cromwell wore armour under his clothes at all times, and was accompanied everywhere by bodyguards.

  Dr Bate had been King Charles I’s physician, and after the death of Oliver Cromwell and the Restoration, became Charles II’s doctor too. He was also given a large sum of money by the restored king, and his family were rewarded with important jobs. A few years later a friend recorded in his diary that ‘Dr Bate died in London of the French pox and confessed on his death bed that he poisoned Oliver Cromwell . . . and his majestie was privi to it.’