A sweeping historical adventure set during one of the most turbulent periods of British history—featuring a heroine you’ll never forget ...
Dorset, 1642.
When bloody civil war breaks out between the king and Parliament, families and communities across England are riven by different allegiances.
A rare few choose neutrality.
One such is Jayne Swift, a Dorset physician from a Royalist family, who offers her services to both sides in the conflict. Through her dedication to treating the sick and wounded, regardless of belief, Jayne becomes a witness to the brutality of war and the devastation it wreaks.
Yet her recurring companion at every event is a man she should despise because he embraces civil war as the means to an end. She knows him as William Harrier, but is ignorant about every other aspect of his life. His past is a mystery and his future uncertain.
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.
Excerpt
Jayne followed William’s instruction to walk in his shadow and hold firmly to the strap of her satchel, which he wore across his shoulder. He was some thirty years of age, strongly built and of a good height, and seemed to have little trouble forging a path between the oncoming crowd and the houses which fronted the road. Several times, he nodded to individual passersby and received an answering nod in return, but none questioned his purpose in taking the opposite direction to them. When they reached High East Street, he turned to the left instead of attempting to push through the press of people to their right and drew Jayne into an alcove formed by the narrow projecting porchway of a bakery. The doors were closed, but there was enough room for them both to shelter from the teeming mass that thronged the road.
“They’re waiting for the priests to be brought from the jail,” he murmured. “It won’t be long before the cart appears, so I suggest we do the same. The crowd will follow or disperse once they’ve hurled their insults.”
“I’m sorry to have put you to this trouble, William. I should have accepted your mistress’s invitation to remain with her for an hour.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Jayne gave a wry smile. “I found her a little alarming. She assumed I knew who she was, but I don’t.”
“Lady Alice Stickland, widow of Sir Francis Stickland. She took up residence in Dorchester when her son inherited his father’s estates and title two years ago. Young Sir Francis is even less tolerant of her waywardness than her husband was.”
Jayne longed to ask what form the waywardness took but didn’t choose to show the same ill-mannered curiosity as his mistress. “Is her brother as tolerant?”
“When he’s in Dorset. He wouldn’t embrace her so readily if she lived in London.”
“Why not?”
The question seemed to amuse him. “He’d lose the King’s patronage if he acknowledged a sister as outspoken as Lady Alice. She makes no secret of her support for Parliament.”
Jayne kept her voice low. “Yet she spoke critically of Samuel Morecott, and there’s no more ardent supporter of Parliament than he.”
“It’s the only belief they have in common. Nothing else about him attracts her.” He looked above the heads of the people in front of them. “The priests approach. You should turn away if you don’t wish to see their anguish.”
Jayne questioned afterwards if it was stubbornness that made her reject his advice. He was overfamiliar for a servant, towards both his mistress and herself, and she was inclined to recite her own lineage in order to put him in his place; but the opportunity never arose, for her voice would have been drowned by the raucous shouts of the crowd. There was no slur too bad to cast at the thin, frail-looking men who stood with their hands tied in front of them in the back of a horse-drawn cart. Children chanted “papist pigs” and flung cow dung; adults favored “spies,” “traitors,” or “Devil’s spawn” and stepped forward to launch mouthfuls of spittle.
One of the priests, the younger, was so frightened he was visibly shaking, and the other took his tethered hands in his own to give him strength. Jayne guessed the older to be close to sixty and wondered if it was age or faith that was allowing him to face his execution so calmly. She saw his mouth move and fancied he was urging his friend to trust in God’s love and mercy, but if so, his words fell on deaf ears. The younger man shook his head and gave way to sobbing.
William spoke into her ear. “He’ll recant at the foot of the gallows. The Sheriff must hope Hugh Green remains steadfast or the crowd will become ungovernable.”
“Is that the name of the older priest?”
“It is. He was confessor to Lady Arundell before his arrest. She wrote to my mistress, begging her to go to the prison and assure Father Green of her continued prayers and devotion, because she wasn’t strong enough to make the journey herself. Lady Alice visited him several times during the months he was held.”
Jayne thought of how anti-Catholic feeling in the country had grown with the rise of the Puritan faction in Parliament and wondered that Lady Alice was so willing to show kindness to a priest. “Was she criticized for it?”
“If she was, she paid no heed. She cares nothing for what others think as long as she believes that what she is doing is right.”
Jayne watched the cart turn onto High East Street and head towards Icen Way. “Will she fight against her brother if war comes?”
“In as much as they’ll be on opposing sides.”
“And her son?”
“The same. He, too, is for the King.”
“I find that sad.”
“Do you not have the same dilemma in your own family, Mistress Swift? Your cousin’s husband is for Parliament, but I’ve heard that your father, Sir Henry, is for the King.”
His prediction that the crowd would thin once the priests were out of sight was correct. Some crept back to their homes or shops, but most followed the cart, their jeers echoing back along Icen Way as Jayne said, “You and your mistress seem to know a lot about me, William. How so?”
“Sir John spoke of you at length. The conversation piqued Lady Alice’s interest and she asked me to discover what I could about you.” He gave a low laugh. “I doubt she expected to make your acquaintance so easily, however. One of my tasks was to try to arrange a meeting.”
“To what end?”
“You refused to align yourself with Sir John and the Royalist cause, and you treat the rural poor for free. Milady hopes that means you’re on the side of Parliament and the people.”
Jayne gave a surprised laugh. “Then I’ll disappoint her as badly as I disappointed her brother. I support men and women who seek an end to division, not those who look to make it worse.”
“Do any such exist?”
“I know of one: the doctor who trained me. He makes no distinction between political or religious beliefs and requires all who learn with him to sign a pledge to treat the sick to the best of their ability regardless of circumstance, status, or conviction. Were the King and Parliament as tolerant of difference, there would be no talk of war.”
William eyed her cynically. “You’re a dreamer, Mistress Swift. War will come whether you desire it or not, and neither side will accept pleas of neutrality to let you pass. Even to reach your cousin’s house today, you’ve had to accept my help and dress as a Puritan. What would you have said if someone had challenged you?”
“The same as I told your mistress: I have urgent business at Samuel Morecott’s house.” She held out her hand for her satchel. “I’m quite able to gain entry on my own, William, and you will serve Lady Alice better if you follow the cart and bear witness to Hugh Green’s martyrdom. She must have sympathy for him, or she wouldn’t have visited him several times. He will die well, I think, and she will want to hear that from someone she trusts.”
He passed her the bag. “Indeed. When your business at Mister Morecott’s house is concluded—with good health for the child, I hope—will you do Milady the kindness of returning her cloak and bonnet? Her son starves her of money, and she is not so rich that she can afford to replace them.”
“I can give them to you now. The road is almost bare of people, and it will take me but half a minute to reach Samuel’s house.”
But he was already several paces away, his ears firmly closed, seemingly intent on obliging her to return for a second visit with his formidable mistress.
As Jayne approached the Morecott house, she saw that every shutter was closed, even those at the upstairs windows. On another day, she would have assumed the house to be empty, but she knew from Ruth’s letter that this couldn’t be the case. Her cousin wouldn’t have begged her on paper stained with tears to hasten to High East Street if she and her son were in residence elsewhere.
Jayne halted before the door, wondering what to do. It was two months since Samuel had banished her permanently from his house after she’d questioned one of his more foolish interpretations of a biblical text, and the servants would refuse to admit her on that basis alone, with or without orders to keep all visitors away. Preferring guile over force, she moved three houses down. “Doctor Spencer has sent me with a delivery of medicine for Mister Morecott’s son,” she told the footman who answered her knock. “My instructions are to go to the rear of the building and place it in the hands of a servant so that the little master isn’t disturbed by noise. Can you tell me how to find the entrance to the kitchen quarters?”
He pointed to an alleyway some fifty yards farther on. “Walk to the cross path, turn left and count off six doors,” he said. “Give the medicine to the cook. She’s the only one with the courage to hand it to Mistress Morecott of her own accord. The rest are too afeared of their master to act without his instruction.”
Jayne produced a shy smile. “Would it be possible for you to accompany me, sir? I’m sure the cook will answer more willingly to you than a stranger. Doctor Spencer was most insistent that the child start his medicine this morning. He would have come himself were it not for the executions.”
The footman eyed her for a moment, perhaps trying to assess how truthful she was being, and then, with an abrupt nod, closed the door behind him and led her towards the alleyway. Mention of the executions had loosened his tongue, and he regaled Jayne with complaints that service to another meant he was unable to attend. How was this fair, he asked, when high days and holidays were so few that all men should be allowed to enjoy them?
Jayne was relieved that he didn’t expect anything more than sympathetic noises by way of answer and that his impatient steps brought them quickly to the house they wanted. He knocked loudly, calling out his name, and the door cracked open a couple of feet to reveal a timorous maid holding a finger to her lips. With the shutters at the window closed, the entire kitchen was in darkness, although light from the doorway reflected off the white aprons and bonnets of other women in the room. All were whispering “shush” as if their lives depended on it.
With a murmured thank you to the footman, Jayne stepped around him and pushed her way inside before the maid could close the door again. “Don’t be alarmed,” she said, picking out faces in the gloom. “Some of you know me from previous visits. I am Jayne Swift, cousin to your mistress, and have come at her request. Only she and I will be blamed for my presence here.”
“The master banned you, ma’am.”
“He did indeed,” said Jayne, shooing the barely seen women aside and moving firmly towards the door that led from the kitchen to the rest of the house. “And when he returns, you may tell him I used deceit to gain entry.”
“Have you come to help little Isaac, mistress?” asked another voice.
“I have.”
“Then you’ll need our prayers, ma’am.”
Jayne opened the door to the corridor. “I’d rather have your assistance than your prayers,” she answered. “Will one of you show me to Isaac’s chamber?”
It seemed not. The request was met with silence, as if the household felt they’d already transgressed enough.
From The Swift and the Harrier by Minette Walters. Used with the permission of the publisher, Blackstone Publishing. Copyright ©2022 by Minette Walters.
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About the Author
Minette Walters is one of the world’s bestselling crime writers and has sold over twenty-five million copies of her books worldwide. She has won the CWA John Creasey Award, the Edgar Allan Poe Award, and two CWA Gold Daggers. The Swift and the Harrier is her third historical novel. She lives in Dorset with her husband.
