9

Through his mane and tail the high wind sings,

Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather’d wings.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Bellbroke Castle
Northumberland, England

As a cock crowed in the courtyard, Blythe put her arms around her mare’s silky neck. Guinevere nickered softly. The scent of hay and horseflesh was like perfume to a woman who’d been raised in the saddle, the earthy stables a solace. Never had Blythe imagined such liberties would come to a halt.

“I miss you, dear girl,” she said in low tones. “For now, I cannot take you out, though a finer spring morn cannot be had.”

She let go only to have Guinevere nuzzle her, much like the foal with its mother in a near stall. At the mare’s continued nickering, Blythe reached into her pocket and brought out a wizened apple from the castle’s cellar. The pippin disappeared with a few crunching bites, and Blythe moved down the dimly lit walk leading to the coach house.

There in a large stall stood a strange coach. Not the sleek black one her father favored with the Hedley arms on the door and a gilt crown on the roof, nor the subdued mourning chaise beside it used after her grandmother’s passing. She’d never seen this contraption. It was obviously newly made, the great wheels hardly showing a speck of wear. Standing on tiptoe, she peered into a window to find the interior finely upholstered in yellow silk, the twin lamps on the front corners sparkling and unmarred by sooty lights.

Curiosity overcame her normal reticence. She called to a passing groom, “What can you tell me about this coach, Billy?”

The lad approached, eyes on the object in question. “Built by a coachmaker in London town, milady. Smaller. Sleeker. To be kept in readiness should it be needed.”

With a nod, Blythe turned away, hoping she’d never sit upon that silken seat. So Father had all in readiness should the worst happen.

She returned to the castle, finding Elodie sitting beneath an arbor near the house, altering a French gown Blythe had given her. Two of the gardeners were at work trimming and planting among the hedgerows a stone’s throw away. Blythe looked past them toward the ponds and woods where she might have gone riding, trying to put down a niggle of discontent.

At morning prayers, she’d confessed her impatience and disappointment, her outright restlessness. By now she’d have been visiting the neediest tenants, gone into the village of Rothbury for market day, reacquainted herself with ploughland and meadow and woods.

As if sensing her disquiet, Elodie called to her, “Are you in need of anything, milady?”

My freedom.

Forcing a smile, Blythe turned in to the rose garden with a reassuring, “Nary a thing.”

Perhaps by summer, when the roses were abloom and at their peak, matters would have settled down. In the night she’d lain awake trying to recall the Stuarts’ tumultuous history. There had been rebellions before, but she had been too small to remember much. It hardly seemed likely there would be another, yet the exiled French court existed to honor the ousted Stuarts, hoping to return them to the throne. Instead, Britain had just crowned a Hanoverian named George.

Such musings seemed no more substantial than moorland mist, like the wandering Stuart prince. Yet she sensed in her father a heightened wariness, a secrecy she could not penetrate. He wanted to make her aware of the danger but would not burden her with details. And she dare not ask.

“Welcome home, milady.” Armed with shears and shovel, the gardeners gave a little bow. Father and son, they might have been brothers but for a few wrinkles.

“I see no sign of Old Man Winter, thanks to your careful tending,” she told them, admiring an heirloom rosebush that had seen a hearty pruning.

The elder disappeared and returned to hold out a hyacinth bouquet, a mass of purples and blues. “’Tis the Celestine variety, newly arrived from Holland. But I suppose ye had your fill of flowers in France.”

She brought them to her nose, breathing in their sweet fragrance. Delighted, she thanked him. “These beauties are grown behind glass in château gardens all winter. But none are as lovely as ours out in the open.”

They returned to their work, and she walked on with her bouquet, down stone steps to a wide fountain that spilled into a second and third before emptying into a small lake. Swans glided across the mirror-like surface, smaller cygnets in tow. The scene was idyllic. It bespoke utter peace.

Belying the whirlwind inside her.

Sitting down on a bench, she exchanged her bouquet for her grandmother’s rosary. The glass prayer beads, bound by a knotted cord, were beloved, given to her at Elinor Hedley’s death. Bending her head, Blythe made the sign of the cross as she clutched the tiny silver crucifix, the Latin words on her lips spoken countless times before.

“Salve Regina, Mater misericordiae, vita dulcedo et spes nostrae salve . . .”

The wind tugged at her skirts and the sun made her drowsy, but she prayed for long minutes, seeking calm, letting the beauty of her surroundings assuage her. Perhaps she needed to talk with Father Beverly, further pour out her heart, once he returned. He’d left before dawn, making his rounds to other Catholic families in secret. The Penal Laws against Catholics were harsh yet seldom enforced . . . but could be if the occasion warranted. Therein lay the threat.

They were no longer in France, where they could practice their faith in relative safety and security, not secrecy. If James Francis Edward Stuart was crowned king of Britain, would he allow for differences in faith? Was intolerance not part of the reason his father had lost the crown to begin with? The fact he was Catholic and a Protestant king was wanted?

Was any sort of successful Rising naught but a lunatic’s dream?