The Swift and the Harrier is a sweeping tale of adventure and loss, sacrifice and love with a unique and unforgettable heroine at its heart.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Swift and the Harrier by Minette Walters, which is out now!
Dorset, 1642. England is on the cusp of civil war.
Jayne Swift, a daughter of the Dorset gentry, has resisted all offers of marriage and instead trained as a physician, using her skills to tend to her Royalist father’s tenants and the local population. When civil war sweeps England she vows to remain neutral and aid the injured whether they be Royalist or Parliamentarian.
William Harrier is first introduced to Jayne as footman to Lacy Alice, a Dorchester parliamentarian, but every time she encounters him, he seems to be in a different guise, and it’s not always clear which side of the war he’s fighting for.
As the battles continue to rage, bringing pain and suffering to both sides, Jayne never wavers in her vow of neutrality. Throughout it all, from the terrifying siege of Lyme Regis, to the execution of the King, she always seems to find herself drawn back to William. But what does she really know of him? His past is a mystery, and his future seems uncertain.
Three
Jayne would have struggled to find the stairs in the darkness that engulfed Samuel’s house had she not known where they were from previous visits. She wondered by what absurd logic Samuel had ordered every shutter closed. Did he think his ailing two-year-old would find comfort in eternal night?
As she felt her way up the wooden treads, she wished for the hundredth time that Ruth had never set eyes on Samuel Morecott, or he on her. There was no mystery about why either had wanted the marriage. At twenty-six, Ruth had despaired of ever finding a husband and couldn’t believe her good fortune when handsome Samuel found reasons to visit her father’s house and waylay her in the garden. Three years her junior, he had flattered her shamelessly, calling her plain face “beautiful” and her lank hair “lustrous.” To all who loved her for her sweetness and kindness, his compliments had sounded false and insincere, and few doubted he had an eye to her fortune. There was no quicker way for a man of humble origins to improve his station in life than to marry the only child of a wealthy landowner.
Once on the landing, Jayne listened for noises, hoping to discover which room to enter. Surely Ruth would be talking to her son? It seemed not, and Jayne was obliged to open two or three doors before she found the one she wanted. Without bothering to announce herself, she moved to the window and flung back the shutters to let in light and air and then turned to look at the wooden crib on the floor. Ruth knelt rigidly beside it, palms pressed together, lips moving in supplication, and her single acknowledgment of Jayne’s arrival was a whispered warning that Samuel would be angry if he came home to find the shutters open.
Jayne removed the pins from the cloak and discarded it on the floor. “Is he so careless of his son’s distress that he’d rather not see it?”
“Doctor Spencer has persuaded him that darkness is the best aid to recovery.”
Jayne shook her head in disbelief as she stooped to examine the child. “What other remedies has he offered?”
Ruth nodded to a stoppered bottle of murky-looking liquid on the table beside the crib. “An infusion of white wine and crushed woodlice. Isaac retches it up each time I try to give it to him.”
Jayne wasn’t surprised. Even adults gagged on the evil concoction so favored by quacksalvers as a cure for respiratory problems. Ruth had written that the town’s physician had diagnosed chincough—a dread disease that led to death when breathing stopped—but since none of his cures was working, Ruth had turned to her cousin in a last desperate attempt to save Isaac’s life.
Seeing how weak the little boy was, Jayne feared it was already too late. Had his cheeks not been flushed with fever, she would have thought him dead already, since his crib resembled nothing so much as a coffin without a lid. He lay on a thin, straw-filled mattress atop hard, unforgiving wood, without a blanket to warm his body or pillows to support his head. Stifling a sigh of impatience, she scooped him into her arms and moved to the window, cradling him in an upright position. The fresh air and change of stance brought on a burst of coughing, and Ruth pleaded with her to return him to the crib.
“The physician advised against holding him,” she said. “He told us Isaac would have fewer spasms if he was left to lie on his back.”
Jayne ignored her to listen to the coughs. To her practiced ear they sounded more like the gravelly barks of croup than the whooping wheezes of chincough, but in either case, his breathing required assistance. With reassuring smiles, she stroked his cheek and hummed a lullaby to soothe him, and when the convulsions subsided, she turned to Ruth.
“If you wish my help, you must summon the cook and instruct her to obey each of my directions. I’m told by your neighbor’s footman that she has the courage to act independently of Samuel.”
“Will Isaac live if I do?”
“Only God knows that, Ruth. Have Doctor Spencer’s methods brought relief?”
“No.”
“Then you risk nothing by letting me try something different. The executions should keep Samuel away for two or three hours, and that’s time enough to see if Isaac fares better with other treatments. You have but to go downstairs and fetch the cook.”
A tired smile crossed Ruth’s face as she rose to her feet. “I wish it were that simple,” she said.
The cook, who gave her name as Mary, listened closely as Jayne listed what she needed—a nursing chair, kettles of boiling water, a flagon of ice-cold water from the well, bowls, napkins, and some sweet, warm custard for Isaac—but she shook her head when Jayne asked if she and the maids could bring them immediately. There were no chairs in the house, Mary explained, only wooden stools; the fire in the kitchen had gone unlit since Wednesday through lack of wood; and she had no eggs, sugar, or milk to make custard because her larder was empty. His son’s illness, coupled with preparations for the priests’ executions, had caused Mister Morecott to overlook the need for food and logs.
“You haven’t eaten for two days?”
“We have not, ma’am, and little Isaac and Mistress Morecott have been without food for even longer. The master gives me an allowance of three shillings each Monday to buy what is necessary, but this week I’ve received nothing.”
Jayne cupped her palm around Isaac’s head where it nestled against her shoulder. “No wonder he’s ailing,” she observed. “There’s no fighting disease when the body is weakened by starvation.” She nodded towards her satchel, which lay on the floor by the crib. “You will find a leather purse in the front pocket, Mary. Take five shillings and make haste to the grocer and log merchant. We women need meat, cheese, and bread, while this little man”—she touched a finger to Isaac’s nose—“needs as much healthy broth and sweet custard as he can manage.”
Mary glanced at Ruth. “Am I permitted, mistress?”
Ruth nodded. “If the master challenges you when he returns, tell him the instruction came from me. I will not have you punished for something I have done.”
Jayne shook her head. “You will tell him the truth, Mary: that it was Jayne Swift who gave the orders. I am without position in this house so have nothing to lose by courting Mister Morecott’s disfavor.” She gave a small laugh. “Nonetheless, since the household will be eating at my expense, I shall demand hard work in return. Take two maids to help you with your purchases and send others to me now with the flagon of cold water, stools, bowls, and napkins. I require the first kettle in this chamber within an hour. Can you manage that?”
Mary bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, ma’am, but it will mean opening the shutters in the kitchen and at the top of the stairs if we’re to handle boiling water safely. Will you take the blame for that also?”
“Gladly.”
Mary located the purse and removed two half crowns before scurrying for the door. “God bless you for your generosity, and Mistress Morecott for summoning you,” she said over her shoulder.
Jayne offered Isaac to Ruth in order to free her hands to take what she needed from her bag, but Ruth shook her head. “I’ve broken too many pledges already,” she said. “You must let me return to my prayers. I can better withstand Samuel’s anger if I can be truthful about those at least.”
After that, she refused to speak, and Jayne had to rely on the maids to give her what she needed. Three arrived with stools, bowls of cold water, and napkins, and she asked the eldest to remain behind to answer some questions. The girl, who said her name was Sarah, shook her head in terror. “It’s not permitted to talk of the young master, ma’am.”
“Your mistress gives you permission. Please nod to say I’m right, Ruth, for I cannot help Isaac without knowing his symptoms.”
Ruth’s nod was firm enough to loosen Sarah’s tongue, and once started, she answered intelligently. Jayne learnt that Isaac had had the sniffles and sneezes for several days before the coughing began. Sarah likened it to the barking of a dog and said Doctor Spencer had thought it was croup until his remedies failed. Now he believed it to be chincough because the barking had continued for two weeks. Jayne asked which remedies had been tried, and Sarah gestured to a number of bottles on the table, which included sour whey and lungwort tincture. In addition, the master had ordered the household to pray, and the servants had done so diligently, taking to their knees between tasks, while Mistress Morecott had remained steadfast beside her son’s crib for five days.
As she listened, Jayne used her finger to moisten Isaac’s lips with water from the flagon. She was sitting on a stool, supporting him in an upright position on her lap and cooling his burning forehead with a cold, damp napkin.
Sarah wrung her hands and begged her to stop. “You should be using one of the infusions, ma’am. Doctor Spencer impressed upon us all that water would reduce the effectiveness of the cures.”
Jayne smiled. “But you’ve just told me how ineffective they are,” she murmured. “Shall we put our faith in pure well water instead? Isaac must be thirsty if all he’s been given is curdled whey, acrid wine, and woodlice. Oblige me by opening my bag and bringing me one of the small spoons from the beechwood box inside.”
Sarah marveled at how greedily the child sucked water from the spoon, and how comfortable he seemed, sitting with his cheek resting against Mistress Swift’s shoulder.
When the kettle arrived, Jayne passed the boy to Sarah’s care in order to prepare her own cure. She removed jars of mint and rosemary oil from her bag and added drops of each to a bowl of steaming water before selecting the largest of the napkins and draping it across her arm. Once ready, she took Isaac back into her arms, lowered herself to the stool, and held the bowl beneath his chin. To show him there was nothing to fear, she placed her cheek next to his and asked Sarah to cover both their heads with the napkin so that they might breathe the scented steam together.
The toddler was easily persuaded to copy her long, deep breaths instead of taking the hesitant, shallow gasps that had become his custom. Yet the vapor seemed to make his coughing worse, causing his little chest to heave through every spasm. Unalarmed, Jayne stroked his back and whispered words of encouragement, and her calmness passed to the child because, as the minutes slipped by, the bouts grew shorter. Once the water began to cool, she carried him to the open window and allowed him to breathe fresh, dry air.
“I see no evidence of chincough,” she told Ruth. “Steam loosens mucus, and he would have brought up green phlegm if that was what afflicts him. I believe Doctor Spencer’s first diagnosis was correct and Isaac is suffering from croup.”
She didn’t expect an answer and was surprised to receive one. Perhaps Ruth had needed but a diagnosis of croup, so much less severe than chincough, to abandon every pledge she’d made to her bully of a husband.
“But why have the cures not worked? Why has the malady persisted for so long?”
“Because Isaac’s too weak and anxious to fight it. We must cajole him into taking as much water and liquid nourishment as we can and soothe his fears while we do it. He needs to see your face and feel the comfort of your arms, Ruth, not stare into darkness and listen to prayers.”
“You wish me to go against everything Doctor Spencer advised.”
“I do.”
“It will be seen by all as a criticism of his methods.”
“They deserve to be criticized.”
“Samuel will not be happy about it.”
Jayne gave an involuntary laugh. “Then nothing will change, cousin. Samuel and happiness have always been strangers to each other.”
The women in the kitchen were agog for news when Sarah descended to ask for a second kettle, more cold water, and a bowl of warm custard. Was the little master improving? How could that be? What was Mistress Swift doing?
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Storing up trouble for us all,” she said. “She has the window wide open, allows the wee one to drink as much water as he wants, and has persuaded Mistress Morecott to hold him in her arms, drop kisses on his head, and sing lullabies to soothe his fretting.”
Mary, the cook, chuckled as she added hot milk to sweetened egg yolks and stirred until the mixture thickened. “Thank God for someone sensible,” she declared.
“Mister Morecott will be angry with us for letting her in,” another maid warned. “We’ll be on our knees for eight hours tomorrow while he sermonizes on the sin of disobedience.”
“He’ll answer to Mistress Swift if he does,” said Mary, giving the custard a last stir and handing it to Sarah. “She gave me her word she’d court the master’s disfavor before she let it fall on us.”
The sun was well down in the west before Samuel returned. Jayne was alerted to his approach by the youngest of the maids, whom she’d stationed at an upstairs window. The girl ran down the corridor, calling out that Mister Morecott was a hundred paces from the door and that Mistress Swift must hurry if she wanted to waylay him in the hall. By then, Jayne’s simple cures—ten minutes of medicinal steam followed by a longer period of dry breathing at the window, cool water, warm broth, and custard—had relieved Isaac’s symptoms enough to allow him to fall into a deep, restful sleep in his mother’s arms.
With a smile of encouragement to Ruth, and a whispered assurance that she would not allow Samuel to disturb them, she instructed the maid to remain with Mistress Morecott and then made her way down the stairs.
The light from the unshuttered window on the landing and the open door of the kitchen at the end of the downstairs corridor were immediately visible to Samuel as he entered through the front door, and mistaking Jayne’s silhouetted figure for his wife’s, he chastised her angrily.
“Why do you persist in disobeying me, woman? Did I not order the shutters to remain closed? It is written in Timothy that a wife may not usurp her husband’s authority but must subject herself to his will without complaint. What is it about that instruction you find so hard to understand?”
“I’m sure Ruth understands it perfectly well, Samuel,” Jayne answered. “It’s acceptance she finds difficult. She prefers the verses in Proverbs Thirty-One that urge husbands to value their wives. I heard her father recite them to her many times before her marriage, and the one that best describes her is the twenty-sixth. ‘She opens her mouth with wisdom and speaks always with kindness.’ You might do well to listen to her from time to time.”
Her voice sparked him to fury. “Out!” he roared, kicking the door wide and gesturing towards the street. “I ordered your shunning eight weeks ago and that order has not been rescinded.”
Jayne remained where she was, for there would be no protecting Ruth and Isaac if Samuel thought he could intimidate her. Nevertheless, she had to draw deeply on her self-training in composure to appear unconcerned at his violent agitation and the blood on his hands. “I was summoned by Ruth,” she answered calmly, “and since this house belongs to her father, she has as much right as you to say who may enter it.”
He clenched a fist. “The rights of a husband take precedence. You will discover that for yourself if you ever persuade a man to offer for you.”
She shrugged. “I’ve yet to meet one who’s worth persuading. It’s not my ambition to marry a fortune hunter who seeks to advance himself at my family’s expense. Does my uncle know you allow but three shillings per week out of Ruth’s allowance to feed eight people? What do you do with the rest of the money? Purchase influence with men such as Robert Spencer?”
His eyes narrowed angrily. “My affairs are not your business.”
“They are when I find your household starving. I was obliged to give your cook five shillings to buy logs and food, for no one here has eaten since Wednesday.”
This seemed to unsettle him. “Be done with your nagging,” he said irritably. “It was an oversight. Why does she not have stores in her kitchen?”
“You keep her too short of money to stock her larder with reserves.”
“The running of the house is Ruth’s responsibility. She should have reminded me the payment hadn’t been made.”
“She tried, but you ordered her to silence.”
“I had other matters on my mind.”
“As did she,” Jayne murmured, “though not the same as yours, I imagine. There’s no thrill in anticipating the execution of priests when your only child is dying. Were their deaths as painful as you hoped, Samuel? You must have been close because you seem to have their blood on your hands . . . and on your face and boots as well. Shall I fetch water so that you may clean yourself?”
He made for a room to his left. “Send a servant.”
“As you wish,” she said, moving to close the front door, “but it will have to be the cook. The younger four are so afeared of you already, they’ll likely swoon to see you in such a state.”
He spoke from inside the room. “Send Ruth.”
“She’s nursing Isaac. You must choose between me and Mary.”
She heard the thump of a fist against a wall. “You then, but speak no more. Your hideous whining grates on my ears.”
What a child he was, Jayne thought, throwing tantrums one minute and sulking the next. She wondered how Ruth had ever tolerated him, for his undeniable beauty could never compensate for the selfishness of his nature nor the paucity of his intellect.
It had been no surprise to Jayne when he’d declared himself a Puritan six months into his marriage and banned the parish rector from his house. Weak men invariably saw advantage to themselves in ridding their households of priestly influence, or indeed any other male influences, since it was no accident that Samuel employed only female servants, in the belief they could be more easily intimidated. He’d told Ruth the reason for the change was to advance his ambition to enter Parliament, saying a man must gain the trust of the people if he wanted their votes. Ruth, wishing only the best for him, had agreed to espouse Puritanism, not realizing that, once free to inflict his own interpretation of the Bible on his wife, child, and servants, Samuel would impose a domestic tyranny that brooked neither criticism nor complaint. Jayne had learnt that his preferred method of gaining compliance was to separate Ruth from her son whenever she dared challenge him, and the last of these separations had endured a week, until Ruth, driven to despair by Isaac’s plaintive crying, had gone to Samuel on bended knee to beg his forgiveness. And now that she’d broken every promise she’d made to him, she was fearful he would banish her from the house, never to see her child again.
When Jayne returned with a napkin and a bowl of warm water, Samuel demanded to know what she had meant when she said Ruth was “nursing Isaac.” Like every other room, this, too, had been kept in darkness, but enough light filtered down from the window on the landing for Jayne to make out his tall figure beside the chimney breast. Without speaking, she placed the bowl on the floor at his feet and walked away. He ordered her to answer, and when she paid him no heed, he followed her into the hall, grasping at her sleeve.
“She is forbidden from holding the child.”
“It’s but ten minutes since you ordered me to silence, sir, and I have pledged myself to obey.” She pulled herself free with a look of withering contempt. “Henceforth, there will be no conversation between us.”
Sarah and the youngest maid crept down to the kitchen some quarter hour later and instructed Mary and the other two servants to take all the food Mistress Swift had purchased to Isaac’s chamber, along with a tinderbox and as many candles as they could find. They were to move as soundlessly as they could to avoid disturbing Mister Morecott, and once delivered of the food, they should return to help Sarah and Rose fill buckets of water from the well and carry those upstairs also.
“And afterwards?” Mary asked. “Does she mean for us to stay in the chamber with her?”
Sarah nodded. “I believe so, though she doesn’t want Mister Morecott to know about it. She was most insistent we do everything quietly.”
“Then so we shall,” said Mary, setting them to work. “For myself, I’d rather be upstairs with the two mistresses than at the master’s mercy down here. He came home with blood all over him and looked quite mad to my eyes.”
The servants were further convinced of Mister Morecott’s madness when he began pounding on Isaac’s door and demanding entry. On Mistress Swift’s instruction, they remained silent, leaving the master to roar at thin air. By then, a heavy oak cabinet used for storing clothes had been pushed in front of the door, and his attempts to shoulder his way inside came to naught. In frustration, he issued a stream of commands to his wife, followed by threats of banishment when she made no answer. Next, he turned his anger on Mistress Swift, calling her all manner of beastly names, but her only response was to smile and hold a finger to her lips to remind all in the room to hold their peace.
Women had strength and power when they acted together, she’d told the servants, but almost none when they had to face their oppressors alone. They knew this, for they had seen how their mistress had suffered each time she’d tried to speak out in defense of them or her son. This day she had disobeyed her husband in the hope of saving Isaac’s life, knowing that if her punishment for defiance was to be barred from this house, she might never see her beloved child again. Each servant must decide for herself whether she wanted to support her mistress or her master, but Jayne promised employment in her father’s house at Swyre to any who lost her position for choosing her mistress.
Mary, who was holding a kettle over five lit candles, shook her head. “We don’t need bribes, ma’am. We’d have stood with the mistress long ago if she’d allowed it. She wasn’t the only one who grieved each time little Isaac was taken from her and left to cry in his crib.”
“We were never allowed to comfort him,” said Sarah. “The master believes he’ll grow up weak and sinful if he’s given hugs and kisses.”
Rose nodded. “We know the verse in Proverbs off by heart, for we’ve heard it often enough. ‘He that spares the rod hates his son, but he that loves his son chastises him often.’ ” She looked shyly towards Ruth. “The poor mistress refused to smack Isaac for laughing when he shouldn’t, and he was taken from her for seven days.”
Mary eyed Jayne curiously. “You seem to view silence as a weapon, Mistress Swift. Has it worked for you before?”
“Only against my father when he denied me permission to train as a physician. My mother joined me, and with both of us refusing to speak to him, we were most effective in persuading him to change his mind.”
“Will it succeed against Mister Morecott?”
“Providing we don’t allow him to frighten us into opening the door. The longer we keep him out, the better Isaac’s chances of recovery.”
A wiser man might have questioned how seven women closeted inside a room would view his intemperate threats and name-calling, but Samuel appeared to assume their only reaction would be fear. He certainly hadn’t bargained for amusement. Emboldened by the laughter in Jayne’s eyes to hear herself and Ruth described as “heathens” and “harlots,” the maids allowed themselves to smile also, for they knew both words to be silly descriptions of Mistress Morecott. None broke the code of silence. Indeed, they embraced it more resolutely, understanding for the first time how quickly a man was reduced to absurdity when his authority was challenged.
Samuel’s parting threat before he stormed down the stairs was to bring elders from his church to force the door and give every woman inside a horsewhipping for disobedience. Jayne shook her head when Rose asked if that might happen. “He seeks only to make you anxious,” she said. “Puritans take their instructions from the Bible, and I don’t recall any verses about whipping another man’s wife and servants.”
Ruth stirred. “He’ll fetch Doctor Spencer. The man is powerfully persuasive and will put forward arguments about why he should be allowed to examine Isaac.” She dropped a kiss on the child’s head. “He’s as quick-witted as you, Jayne, so you’ll not find him easy to resist. One way or another, Samuel will make his way through that door.”
“But not until Isaac has regained his strength,” said Jayne firmly, “and that will take another twenty-four hours.” She used a napkin to lift the lid of the kettle to see how close the water was to boiling. “A few minutes yet, I think, Mary. If your arm grows tired, let Sarah take over from you.”
“It’s only heavy when it’s full, ma’am.” She glanced at Ruth. “Would this be a chance for the mistress to eat? She’s been without food for days and will likely fall from the stool if she abstains much longer.”
Blessing the cook for her common sense, Jayne urged everyone to take some nourishment. For herself, she knelt at Ruth’s side with a platter of bread, cheese, and stewed mutton and fed her cousin tidbits in between taking some herself. In truth, Jayne thought Ruth would have fasted forever as long as she could sit as she was now, with Isaac asleep and breathing more easily in her arms, and Jayne’s heart hardened further against Samuel for his cruelty to them. Her tutor, Richard Theale, would counsel her against allowing personal feelings to sway her judgment, but in this instance she would tell Richard he was wrong. She needed to be fired by anger if she was to keep this child, his mother, and their servants safe.
From The Swift and the Harrier by Minette Walters. Used with the permission of the publisher, Blackstone Publishing. Copyright ©2022 by Minette Walters.
