Persuading the citizenry and the ordinary soldiers of this was not an easy task, the more so as the officers’ bravery depleted their ranks, leaving many platoons and companies headless. On the occasion I refer to, a company of Royalist soldiers attempted to break through one of the weaker sections of the town’s defenses, knowing that the soldiers defending it were disheartened and irresolute. Indeed, it seemed initially that the bold assault would be successful, for many gained the walls, and the discouraged defenders began to pull back. Within minutes, the wall would be theirs and the entire besieging army would pour over.

Then the woman of the tale stepped forward, girded her petticoat into her belt and picked up the pistol and sword of a fallen soldier. “Follow or I die alone,” she is said to have shouted, and charged into the mob of attackers, hacking and cutting all around. So ashamed were the Parliamentarians at having their cowardice exposed by a mere woman, and so commanding was the tone of their new leader, that they reformed themselves and charged also. They refused to give any further ground, and the ferocity of their assault forced the Royalists back. As the attackers made their way to their lines once more, the woman formed the defenders into a line, and directed fire into their backs until the very last musket ball had been used up.

As I have said, this was Edmund Blundy’s woman, Anne, who already had a reputation for bloodcurdling ferocity. I do not necessarily believe that she bared her breasts before charging into the Royalist ranks, so that they would be less able to strike at her through gallantry, but it is certainly possible and would be quite appropriate to the reputation she established for immodesty and violence.

Such was this woman who, I believe, was more violent in temper and deed than was her husband. She laid claim to being a wise woman, saying her mother had such power, and her mother’s mother before her. She even intervened to make speeches at soldiers’ gatherings, exciting awe and derision in equal part. She it was, I believe, who incited her husband onto ever more dangerous criminal belief, for she utterly scorned all authority unless she chose, willingly, to accept it. A husband, she maintained, should have no more authority over a wife, than a wife over a husband. I have no doubt that she would eventually have claimed that man and donkey should live in equal partnership as well.

And it was certainly true that neither she nor her daughter had renounced such beliefs. While most, grudgingly or with enthusiasm, set aside old opinions when times changed and the king returned, some persisted in error despite the manifest withdrawal of divine favor. These were the people who saw the return of the king as God’s test of their belief, a brief hiatus before the coming of King Jesus and the establishment of His thousand-year rule. Or they saw the Restoration as a sign of God’s displeasure, and an incentive to become ever more fanatical to win back His approval. Or they spurned God and all His works, bemoaning the turn of events, and sank into the lassitude of greed disappointed.

Anne Blundy’s exact beliefs I never fathomed, and indeed had no interest in doing so; all that counted for me was that she remained quiescent and in this she seemed more than willing to oblige. I did, however, once question Mr. Wood on the matter, for I was aware that his mother employed the girl in their house as a general work-all.

“You know of her background, I imagine,” I asked him. “Her parentage and her beliefs?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I know what they were, and I know what they are now. Why do you ask?”

“I have an affection for you, young man, and I would not wish your family, or your mother, to be besmirched.”

“I am grateful for the attention, but you need have no fear. The girl is in perfect conformity with all the laws, and is so dutiful that I do not believe I have ever heard her express a single opinion. Except when His Majesty returned, when her eyes filled with tears of perfect joy. You may rest assured that this must be so, for my mother will scarcely have even a Presbyterian in the house.”

“And the mother?”

“I have met the woman only a few times, and found her quite unremarkable. She has scraped together enough money for a washing house, and works hard for her living. I think her only concern is to put by enough money for her daughter to have a dowry, and this is Sarah’s main concern as well. Again, I know something of her reputation through my researches, but I believe the madness of faction has left her as entirely as it has left the country as a whole.”

I did not completely take Mr. Wood’s word, since I had my doubts about his ability to see deeply into such matters, but his report settled my mind and I gladly turned to more interesting quarry. Occasionally, I took note that the daughter would travel to Abingdon or Banbury or Burford; that men of doubtful loyalty—such as the Irish magus I mentioned earlier—would visit their little cottage. Nonetheless, I had few worries. They seemed determined to abandon their previous desire to remake England in their own image, and appeared content simply to make as much money as their positions and abilities would allow. To that laudable aim, I could not object, and I paid them little attention until Marco da Cola went straight to their cottage on the pretext of treating the old woman for her injury.

I have, naturally, read his words on this subject with the greatest of care, and am almost admiring at the consummate skill with which he makes all out to be innocent and charitable. His technique, I note, is to tell something of the truth in everything, but wrap each little fragment of veracity in layer upon layer of falsity. It is hard to imagine a man would take such trouble, and if I did not know the truth of the matter I would undoubtedly be convinced of the genuineness of his candor, and the extent of his generosity.

But look at the matter from a wider perspective, with the benefit of more information than Mr. Cola is willing to provide. Conversant with radical circles in the Low Countries, he comes to Oxford and within hours makes the acquaintance of the family who knows more such people than anyone else in the county. Even though they are far outside his social sphere, he visits them three or four times a day, and is more attendant than a real physician would be with even the wealthiest of clients. No man of sense or reason acts in such a way, and it is a tribute to Mr. Cola’s tale that, on reading it, such absurd and unlikely behavior seems perfectly comprehensible.

Once Mr. Boyle told me he had also gravitated into the society of the High Street Philosophers, I knew that at last I had some possibility of learning more about the man’s movements and thoughts.

“I hope you do not mind that I took him under my wing in this way,” Boyle said when he mentioned it to me, “but your account was so fascinating that when the man himself appeared in the coffee house, I could not resist examining him myself. And I must say I think you are entirely wrong about him.”

“You did not dissent from my argument.”

“But it was an easy speculation, based on abstraction. Now that I have met him, I do not concur. We must always take character into account, surely, for that is the surest guide to a man’s soul and therefore to his intentions and deeds. I see nothing in his character which would coincide with your speculations about his motives. Quite the reverse.”

“But he is cunning, and you are trusting. You might as soon say a fox is harmless to a hen because it approaches gently and softly. It is only dangerous when it strikes.”

“Men are not foxes, Dr. Wallis, and nor am I a hen.”

“You admit the possibility of error, though?”

“Of course.” And Boyle smiled in that thin and arrogant way of his which indicated his difficulty in even conceiving of the notion.