armed countrymen who were wearied beyond endurance of being taxed and raided by soldiers. These vigilantes had declared themselves the enemies of both King and Parliament, and roamed about the counties frightening everyone. To avoid attack, Juliana was instructed that since the Reverend Isaac Bonalleck was going her way, he would take her safely to the outskirts of Oxford. 'Or indeed,' said Francis Falconer, hopefully, 'if the siege of that town has ended, he can escort you right to your house.'
Juliana feared she no longer had a house, although Edmund Treves had promised to try to intercede with the landlord.
She never met Isaac Bonalleck's wife. Orlando's sister Bridget was so determined not to be infected by Royalism, she had refused any introduction to Juliana. Bonalleck was a fervent preacher who read his Bible as he rode the dawdling pad horse. His suit was black, his linen devoid of ornament, his collar small, his mouth tight, his colour florid. He suffered hurricanes of flatulence. The surges of embarrassment which overwhelmed him after every blast from his stomach went some way towards giving him a fragile humanity.
It took them a week to forge a passage through the muddy lanes and pot-holed highways. Often the road was so impassable that carriers hacked down the hedges and crossed into neighbouring fields. Almost sanctioned in law because the landowners were supposed to maintain the roads, this was generally accepted; far-sighted travellers carried axes for the purpose. Where last week's carriers had churned up the fields too much, they moved over further and further, on one stretch travelling half a mile from the original road. During their slow progress Isaac Bonalleck never discussed meals, weather, the best routes, the state of the roads, prices, indigestion, bad carriers, good post runners, cheating wagoners, or any of the usual subjects travellers chewed over at stops by the wayside or around dining tables in inns.
Only when they reached the outskirts of Oxford, did Mr Bonalleck relax. A New Model Army regiment under Colonel Thomas Rainborough had set up an informal blockade, anticipating a full siege after the winter. Rainborough's brother-in-law was a Mr Winthrop from New England, a man known to Mr Bonalleck, who also shared with Rainborough friendship with a New England preacher called Hugh Peter. So Bonalleck felt he would now be among friends and privileged, whereas Juliana still had to persuade the soldiers to let her enter Oxford. She had arrived during the curfew, an unsuccessful measure against riotous behaviour, so she waited. There was no safety for a respectable woman on the dark streets full of noisy taverns where soldiers habitually sat up in all-night drinking bouts.
When they first arrived and prepared to wait, they were able to observe that Oxford's outlying districts had suffered badly during the war. Growing fields lay fallow. Pasture meadows had lost their turf, dug out to build fortifications. Houses were either badly damaged or completely pulled down. Trees had been felled. No cattle grazed.
Mercy Tulk had fallen asleep with the children. Juliana gritted her teeth for one last meal at the inn with Bonalleck.
Now it emerged that he had spent the whole week of their journey in trepidation, believing that he was escorting a Roman Catholic. 'Oh no. I would have tried to convert you!' exclaimed Juliana heartlessly. She gave up her meal after a few grim mites of tasteless bacon and carrots. Bonalleck was munching on; she told him how, when she was pregnant with Tom and had a bad landlord, she had attended sermons in High Anglican Oxford churches and found them too autocratic.
'Maybe you are a puritan,' commented Bonalleck, without much hope of it. He wiped his mouth with a fourpenny napkin fastidiously; the innkeeper's wife hovered close by, anxious to keep tally of her now very worn table-linen. Mr Bonalleck was already beginning to worry whether the bacon, or more likely the carrots, would give him his usual gales of wind but, encouraged by Juliana, he defined the term for her: 'A puritan yearns for the pure word of God, as revealed in Scripture and in his own prayers; that is, without any additions or falsifications from man — I mean, from diocesans — the Pope and his servants, or detestable bishops. A puritan declines all that is ceremonious in worship. They seek, therefore, a plain, convincing way of preaching which must be put before them in their familiar language. Natural speech, delivered as in a conversation, keeps the attention. Just as railing-off an altar puts separation between a congregation and God, so does the use of inexplicable language, drearily read by some highflown cleric who keeps his head down over his notes. Icons and pomp, statues and surplices, all create mystery, whereas the serious man of God in meek simplicity seeks, through days and hours of scriptural study and his own sober prayer, to see through darkness to the truth.' The need to contain wind forced Mr Bonalleck to a stop.
Juliana had swallowed a tankard of small ale, along with insufficient food; it made her reckless. 'You preach — men and women also? Does your wife preach, Mr Bonalleck, or is she content merely to be an ornament to her husband?'
Bonalleck stared at her. 'My wife has offended you.'
'Absolutely the contrary. Your wife has had nothing to do with me. I am married to her brother and she hates him — yet should she hate me too, without even seeing me? Where in this cold demeanour is 'testing truth according to her conscience', which I have always been told is the Protestant ideal, or examining the 'pure' evidence?'
'My wife,' said Bridget's husband heavily (he had drunk little; he was studiously godly), 'spent many hours in prayer, asking the Lord to show her a way to deal with you.'
Juliana scoffed angrily. 'If, after so much strict deliberation between the two of them, our Lord informs Mrs Bridget Bonalleck that I am not fit company, then I am as damned as a cockatrice and must take the straight path to hell. Your wife's worthy disapproval makes me feel like a court lady-in-waiting I once observed, making her presence felt in the pews by wearing transparent cobweb lawn.'
In Oxford, she had once seen two such young women float into church in low-cut white gowns, with their breasts barely concealed; among male Royalists they won themselves a reputation of dressing 'like angels', though Nerissa had been outraged. 'All the morals of a rag of old rope!'
Juliana eased herself wearily to her feet. Exhaustion made her disputatious. 'Here is an awkwardness, Mr Bonalleck. For while Mrs Bridget is informed I am so dangerous that merely to greet me politely would threaten her zealous soul, then the Lord comes tiptoeing from her chamber into my own where He tells me with His enduring compassion that I am an honest woman who has many troubles, yet who leads a decent life, with a true conscience. I bid you goodnight, Mr Bonalleck!'
Next morning Juliana, Mercy and the children were permitted to enter Oxford. There was never much difficulty getting into a beleaguered city; the enemy wanted the largest numbers possible inside, using up resources, in order to cause hardship and encourage surrender.
Nervously, Juliana went to the St Aldate's house. The key Nerissa had given her still worked. As soon as she entered, she knew Lovell was there. On his return, he had done what she ought to have done herself: sub-let. He had filled the spare rooms with lodgers, thus enabling himself both to pay the landlord and to obtain some weekly rents. With this income, he had bought new spurs and a brown corded suit, then hired a bootboy. Juliana found him in the parlour, his stockinged feet on the fender before a roaring fire, reading a news-sheet.
She gazed at him for a second before he became aware of her. Then he dropped the paper and spun to his feet. He was a very pretty little man… Oh yes. Under the sometimes-harsh exterior his attractiveness remained. When he smiled at a woman, it was clear he knew that perfectly.
Yet Juliana was his woman. His face lit. Her expression joyfully answered his. In an instant, the two were in each other's arms, clasped hard. Orlando felt very much leaner. Six months in prison had left him thin, weak and drained. 'Oh thank God!' he exclaimed as he held her, speaking with such force that Juliana believed he meant it honestly.
Next moment Tom burst in on them, screaming with delight at the father he must have only half remembered. Tom flung himself at Orlando; Orlando roared and tossed the child up to the smoke-stained kitchen ceiling while Juliana hung back, wincing in case her husband lost his grip and dropped her boy into the fire.
Various things emerged over the next days. Orlando now styled himself major. 'I had to bump myself up a rank to gain better quarters.' Even now he was back in Oxford, no one seemed to query it. He called himself a 'reformado', an officer whose regiment had been disbanded or merged into another, with no position left for him. 'First I was dumped in a hideous prison, the Compter in Southwark. But I managed to be moved to Lambeth Palace. The Archbishop of Canterbury's suites were excellent. Sir Roger Twysden's wife shared three rooms there with her husband, having a study and a fair chamber with a chimney. Not being a knight or baronet, I rated one room only — sometimes forced to share that with another prisoner,' Lovell added hastily, seeing that Juliana was wondering why
