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CHAPTER ONE

Japhet Crook had searched long and hard into his soul to find remorse, but still he had found none. He felt no guilt or shame, only a sense of attainment. He had outsmarted the smartest, acquired wealth through the stupidity and greed of others. No, he was not remorseful.

His eyes circled the squalid room that had been his prison for the past three summers, dank, cold and now infested with mice. He had owned and lived in some of the finest houses in the country and now this is where he would end his days. Staring at the ceiling, he caught sight of a butterfly enmeshed in a large web struggling frantically to free itself. He hoped that somehow it would find the strength to escape but knew, despite its efforts, it was stuck fast, a succulent meal for a hungry predator.

Japhet had loved all his wives equal; his beloved gaggle of Mary’s, each a living beauty but all independent in temperament; he had feasted on their splendour, lusted over their bodies, yet none had been able to fulfil him completely. “Well, maybe one”, he muttered quietly to himself, thinking of Mary Black, his vivacious highland goddess.

He thought long of his children and wept uncontrollably. Young Jaffe, his embittered son, now a man of 40, Elizabeth, the child he regretfully abandoned to the Americas. William and Mary, his wayward twins and lastly Helen, his favourite, his impetuous spirit would live on in her. He sighed, folded his arms behind his head and stared back at the ceiling, grieving for his dead son, Robert. Soon, by the mercy of God, he would cradle him in his arms once more.

His eyes rested on a large black spider that had emerged from a hole near its web, testing the ground with its legs. Aware of what fate had in store its victim remained frozen, hopeful of going undiscovered. However, it was not to be. The spider struck relentlessly, fiercely engulfing the defenceless creature in a fine silk blanket.

Feeling tired, Japhet rested his head back on a pillow. He smiled as he recalled his childhood; for all its strife, it had been a happy one, the tolerance of his father and the gentle ambience created by his brother. His smile turned to a quiet chuckle. He had enjoyed a full and interesting existence. Memories seemed to flash through his mind at tremendous speed. He forgot all his past bitterness and for once thought fondly of his mother. As he closed his eyes and began to drift into yet another deep sleep, his thoughts went back, back beyond his earliest memories to where it all began.

The Birthing
August 5th 1662

Even the heavy rains that had fallen continuously for the past hour did little to alleviate the intensity of yet another hot summer's day. Outside, the ground was awash; large pools of water had formed in the pits and hollows of the sun-caked earth, already giving rise to a fine vapour-like mist as the scorching sun emerged from the storm clouds.

Elisabeth Crook slowly made her way back from the small single-paned window where she had stood and gently lowered her heavy body onto the makeshift straw pallet. The searing pain she felt was relentless and her long black curls and drab linen frock were damp from her perspiration.

Robert, her husband, had been gone for what seemed like an eternity. He had left her to travel to the cottage of Sarah Luck, the Quaker midwife, appointed to help with the confinement. His journey would take him out of Bayford Village where they lived, almost as far as the town of Hertford. Elisabeth prayed he would arrive back in time.

This being her first child she had no idea of how long it would take before the baby began to push its way out. She knew it was close and she was alone. Panic started to rise in her throat and beads of sweat dripped from her nose onto her chin. She could hear a voice shriek somewhere in the distance, then realised the voice she heard was that of her own. “Dear God... I beg of thee do not forsake me now.”

Her tears flowed freely, stinging her eyes. Her isolation from friends and neighbours was never more apparent than it was now. Despite the heat, a raging fire burnt in the hearth, smoking incessantly and compounding the hotness and humidity of summer, which increased her discomfort. The smell of the vegetables she had been cooking for lunch in the kettle hanging over the fire made her feel sick to her stomach. The small cottage seemed airless. She tried to stand, desperate to breathe in some fresh air, but felt unable to overcome her weakness.

“God...I beseech thee, LET SOMEBODY HELP ME,\" she yelled, as yet another griping pain ripped through her exhausted body. She knew her cries were in vain for no matter how loud she screamed, no one would answer. Although neighbours were close and had known her since childhood, they would rather let her die than foster someone who had elected to break from their revered Anglican Church.

These past years had seen many changes to Elisabeth and Robert’s life. Disenchanted by the hypocrisy of the Church since the restoration of Charles II to the throne in 1660, Robert began to attend the meetings of the Hertford Friends and had since become a devout Quaker. The words of Henry Sweeting and the comradeship of the now swelling numbers had given Robert heart. Even the imprisonment of over forty Hertford Quakers for refusing oaths and attending meetings did not deter him. Elisabeth loved Robert passionately and as his dutiful wife, had obeyed him and complied with his beliefs, and up until now had never questioned the sensibility of her marriage.

Her face grimaced as she clutched at her swollen stomach. There was no time to dwell on her situation. Her waters had long since broken and she knew the birthing was imminent. She writhed in agony, praying for deathly release as the sweat from her body soaked through her frock onto the bed covering that lay beneath her.

Elizabeth had almost given up hope. Fearful for her life, she had accepted the fact that she would have to face the birth alone, when the door to the small tied cottage opened. Robert stood breathless, flushed and motionless in the doorwell with a look of anguish upon his face. Sarah pushed past him. “Don’t just stand there Robert, fetch me some water and clean rags.”

“Thanks be to God.” Elisabeth cried out with relief.

“Fear not sister, I am with thee now”, said the midwife, wiping Elisabeth’s brow with the corner of her shawl.

“God Damn this child for bringing me such suffering, and damn ye Robert Crook and thy stupid religion”.

“Hush sister, thou must not blaspheme”, Sarah Luck scolded gently. “Thou art doing well; I can clearly see the baby’s head. Now, breathe deeply.”

“And damn thy counselling, sister Luck. Just relieve me of this pain.”

“It’s almost over, one last push”, Sarah instructed, as another contraction came upon Elisabeth.

Elisabeth Crook raised her legs and cupped her thighs. She arched herself upwards and gave one final thrust, feeling her flesh stretch and tear as her baby emerged.

“Thou hast been delivered of a fine baby boy,” Sarah the midwife announced joyfully. “So let us all give thanks to God.”

Thus was born Japhet Peter Crook, this fifth day of August in the year of our lord, 1662.

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