I do more travail with sorrow for the grief I suffer for the ways that you take that the King does believe you are against him, than ever I did to bring you into this world.
—Susan Feilding, Countess of Denbigh and lady-in-waiting to the Queen, pleading with her son who joined Parliament’s side, 1643
James Whittier entered the pub at twilight and nodded at the publican behind the bar. Squinting against the dark interior, he settled at his usual table at the back of the room where he could see the door. The pretty barmaid busy lighting the tapers looked up.
‘Same as usual, my lord?’
‘Same as usual. Got to keep my wits. Gives me an edge. But no hurry, Meg.’
The girl pulled his drink, topping it off from a water jug. ‘Slim pickings tonight by the looks of it, my lord. Just that one in the corner over there. Says he’s waiting for someone. Not much of a drinker.’
‘Then I shall nurse my thinking man’s drink and use my senses to enjoy the view.’
‘Thou cannot see the river through that fogged-up window—oh.’ She blushed with pleasure at his meaning, then put his goblet on the table in front of him and went to poke the smoky fire. Watching as she bent over, he stifled the remark that the view was improving. Sparks hissed and leapt up the chimney. His attention still on the girl, James barely noticed the only other customer in the tavern get up from his seat. She tossed her hair with a sideways glance at him and offered him a dimpled smile. The wench enjoyed friendly appreciation for her attributes, of which her shapely figure was not the least, but her rapier tongue would deflate any admirer who went too far. She seldom had to use it. The publican, a burly fellow, kept a club behind the bar and a watchful eye on the virtue of his sister’s only child.
No matter. Profit, not dalliance, was Whittier’s purpose. If custom did not pick up soon he would need to look elsewhere. But where? Damnable business this war. Cavalier dandies had fled north, most defaulting on their markers. Their lot often suffered from shallow pockets and deep expectations—always betting on ‘the come.’
He heard a discreet harrumph from behind him and looked up with some surprise to see that the man who’d gotten up did not leave but was standing over him. ‘Finally, Lord Whittier. I’ve been to your shop in Fleet Street twice seeking you,’ he said. ‘Thought I might find you here or at the George. About the only two places where a man can find a game these days.’
Whittier didn’t immediately recognize him, though he looked vaguely familiar, but the voice? Yes. Resonant, confident, a speaker’s voice. He was sure of it. Though this powerful Parliament man seemed to be worse for the wear of his burdensome job. He’d lost at least a stone, or maybe two, since last they had met.
‘Mr. Pym. An unexpected pleasure. Please join me and tell me how I may be of service to you. Will you drink?’ he asked, motioning for Meg.
Pym waved the barmaid off with what passed for a smile. ‘My stomach is more Puritan than my appetite. It rebels against strong drink.’ Pym took the offered seat, cleared his throat, and looked James directly in the eye. He liked that in a man, a strong, direct gaze. ‘I will get straight to the point, Lord Whittier. It is my understanding your publishing enterprise is flourishing. As you are centered in London, I hope I may assume that you support Parliament’s cause in this conflict.’
‘Then you would assume incorrectly, Mr. Pym. I have no part in this war. However, you are partially correct. My readers are on your side and the market for my goods. I print the news my readers want to read. I would be a poor fool to do anything less.’
Pym frowned at this rejoinder. Whatever zeal was gnawing at his innards he naturally desired at least a pretense of sharing. ‘Do you think your readers would be interested in coded letters written by the King to his French consort, letters which speak, among other things, of not only his tolerance for but his enlistment of Roman Catholics in his northern army?’
Whittier shrugged. ‘I would think my readers already anticipate that circumstance. After all, isn’t that what this is all about, another of the endless intrigues involving Rome and the English monarchy? Thing is I can’t figure out whether this and all the others are really about religion or just political power.’
A flash of temper crossed Pym’s face. ‘It matters to your readers because some among them think, wrongly, that Parliament’s reaction to the King’s misappropriation of power is overblown, that this crisis will recede if we just seek compromise.’ Pym rapped his knuckles against the table. ‘I tell you, sir, it will not go away until one side or the other gains supremacy. This King will not share power with Parliament, though at the prodding of his wife he seems to have no trouble sharing it with the Pope. Should he emerge victorious in this conflict, there will be a purging of all non-Catholics the like of which has not been seen since the first Bloody Queen Mary. Political or religious—it will not matter to those poor people who will be kindling for the Roman fires.’ He pounded the table with his fist, drawing the barmaid’s wide-eyed attention. ‘The King must be made to accede power to Parliament.’
When he had finished his polemic, James said quietly, ‘I will not promise to publish toward that end, Mr. Pym. But I will publish newsworthy items that you are in a unique position to provide.’
Pym looked at him for a long moment, his small mouth pursing in thought, like one man taking the measure of another. You are much shrewder than you let on, Whittier thought.
Finally, Pym spoke. ‘Well then, Lord Whittier, I only hope that you will maintain your neutrality for both King Charles and Parliament and not publish Royalist lies.’
‘You may be sure, Mr. Pym, that I am beholden only to those who purchase and read my news. And since I am in Parliament town that circumstance accrues to your side’s advantage. Londoners love reading about their hated Queen, and with her absence there has been little to print, except unfounded rumors. A printer must keep some credibility lest he lose his custom.’
Pym considered this argument. When he spoke, his tone was more moderate. ‘I think, Lord Whittier, that your readers might be very interested to hear that coded letters from the Queen have been exchanged with a prominent Scots lord. A more reliable source than rumor, surely?’
‘You have my attention, sir. But aren’t the Scots on your side?’
‘Not this one. He is not a Covenanter. He is a Catholic.’
‘His name?’
‘Rand MacDonnell, Earl of Antrim. The Highlander conspirator who wed Buckingham’s widow and conspired to raise an army of Irish Catholics. The letter contains proof of treason in the Queen’s own words.’
‘Proof, you say? Have you this letter in your possession? Have they been decoded?’
‘They have. And I will show you the code. You can verify the content, provided you give your word as a lord of the realm that you will not publish the code.’
‘I give you my word. I would hardly bite the hand that feeds me.’
‘Indeed.’ He reached inside his doublet and withdrew a tightly rolled parchment. Still clinging to it was the broken seal of the house of Stuart. ‘For your immediate perusal. I will not leave the document or the code with you.’
Whittier glanced at the letter, which Pym spread out on the table before him, one hand holding a corner securely. ‘May I write down the quote?’ he asked even as he retrieved a traveling scribe’s pen and paper from the same pocket satchel that carried his dice and, without waiting for an answer, began scribbling the particulars. He let escape a low whistle as he carefully copied the part where the Queen styled herself, ‘her she-majesty, generalissima.’
‘You were correct in your thinking, Mr. Pym. My readers will be interested. You do realize how incendiary this is? You are fanning the flames of a war that will not end well. May I ask how you came by such a document, and are there others?’
‘Does any war end well, my lord? And are you not fanning the flames? Perhaps with less principle than I. The King must be persuaded to see reason. As to how I obtained it, I will only say that it was found in possession of one of the King’s heralds who was willing to relinquish it for his freedom and a bribe,’ he said as he rolled up the scroll and put it back inside his doublet.
‘Ah, the price of loyalty. Why did you just not take it?’
‘Reasonableness begets reasonableness. The herald may find himself in need of money again. We know where he is quartered.’
Or he might feed you false information as well, he thought, thinking the Member of Parliament had the naivety of an honest man.
‘I would be interested in seeing other news of this quality,’ Whittier said, holding out his hand in bargain.
Pym, after the slightest hesitation took it, then said, ‘We will speak again.’
Watching him walk away, Whittier ceded him a grudging admiration. There was something about his forthrightness. If James were going to pick a side, he’d lay his wager on Parliament, he thought. Then once more he took up his pen and hastily wrote at the bottom of the copied quote the numbers of the code he could remember from the cipher. What he could not remember he could probably figure out—if the need should ever arise. He had noticed that the page he was allowed to copy bore no fond signature in the Queen’s hand. This suggested a second page whose secrets the wily Mr. Pym did not want to see in print. Not yet anyway. Sad in a way. Every billet doux passing between husband and wife was subject to leering eyes. Poor Henrietta Maria. Poor Charles Stuart. He was almost tempted to warn the King. Almost.
The smoke and the boom of the big guns frightened Mitte, frightened Henrietta too, yet it was not meet that a Queen should shiver and push her wet nose into the crook of a comforting elbow. Lord Denbigh’s brocade sleeve did not look that inviting anyway.
‘Algernon Percy surprises me,’ Denbigh said into the fading echo of the cannon. From the balcony of the Queen’s secret lodgings at Bridlington Bay—which had turned out to be no secret after all—they looked out across the open sea. ‘I suppose I’ve not given him enough credit. I thought his ships would be lying in wait at Yarmouth in response to the false reports we leaked.’
‘Perhaps you give him too great credit, my lord. He might have been unable to decode your false messages.’ She reached out for the spyglass he was holding, put it to her own eye. ‘A big man-of-war for a traitor admiral with so small wit.’ A sharp intake of breath and then, ‘Does Tromp turn? He does not retreat with my convoy of arms and men!’
‘No, your majesty. Merely an evasive maneuver, I am sure. The Dutch ships are lighter.’ Waving toward the promontory on the left skyline, he added. ‘Percy is making for yon Flamborough Head, would be my guess. His heading was probably for Kingston upon Hull. His ship is bigger, clumsier. He’ll lose valuable time trying to make the turn.’
Another cannon boomed and splashed, falling short of any target but wringing a whimper from the little spaniel in her arms whom she had just retrieved from his hiding place beneath the bed.
‘Sh, shh, mon petit,’ she whispered. ‘Tout va bien.’
Denbigh nodded toward her fleet. ‘The Dutch ships are outfitted with some big guns of their own, though they may be hesitant to return fire against the King’s frigate.’
‘But it is no longer the King’s if it is controlled by Parliament,’ Henrietta answered indignantly. ‘Tromp should sink it.’
‘Ah, your majesty.’ Denbigh smiled weakly, ‘Such action might be construed as an act of war against England. The Dutch are pretty careful in matters of neutrality.’
Henrietta didn’t have to be reminded of Den Haag neutralité. Experience had pressed that upon her more than once: their canniness about the crown jewels, the way they insisted on accepting envoys from both Parliament and Charles.
‘The admiral is smart,’ Denbigh said. ‘His evasive maneuver will delay the navy and divert Essex’s cavalry north as well. Are you up for taking a ride in the wind and the rain, Majesty?’
Henrietta was wet, cold, and muddied from the ditch into which they had dived to avoid the cannon shot during what was supposed to be a secret landing. She longed for something warm to drink and a bed. But she wrinkled her nose against the acrid odor of gun powder and replied, ‘Certainement, my lord. How long a ride?’
She handed him back the glass. Gazing at the headland, he lifted it once again. ‘Maybe two hours. If we ride quickly. A carriage will be waiting with an armed and mounted guard in Londesborough. We will overnight there.’
‘And my ladies?’
‘My lady wife is at the castle garrison at York. Your maid Genevieve is with her to prepare for your coming. We did not anticipate this ambush. But you should still make York garrison by tomorrow night or the next night at most. As to your other ladies, a troop of Cavaliers headed by young Percy and Henry Jermyn will accompany them in the opposite direction.’
‘A decoy.’ Henrietta did not like the sound of that. She was fond of both men. If her ladies were captured, Parliament would not dare mistreat them, but Jermyn and young Percy would wind up in the Tower.
‘No worry, your majesty. Parliament might feel the need to place you under their ‘protection’ but they’ll not bother your ladies.’
‘Well at least they do not have to ride in the rain. Who will ride with me?’
‘That honor has fallen to me. I am sorry you must suffer this indignity. But even if your royal carriage had not been lost on the first attempt at crossing, this would still be the more prudent. They’ll not be looking for two lone riders in the rain.’
She smiled up at him in reassurance. ‘I am not sucre. I shall not dissolve,’ she said as a stable groom led two horses to them. ‘It will be a comfort to ride again on the soil that carries my husband.’
Indeed, the sinking of the ship with her carriage and horses mattered little now that she was home. The knowledge that she was returning to her love in triumph made her heart flutter. Thank the Blessed Mother the cargo in the other ships had safely made the treacherous crossing. The gifts of arms and munitions she brought with her had already been secured in every barn and croft in York before her ship made Bridlington Bay—along with several hundred Catholic recruits from the Continent, all awaiting her command. She would help her Charles take control of his rebellious kingdom once and for all time. This devil’s uprising and its perpetrators would be vanquished, and the King would be restored to his God-given kingdom. Then they would return rights to all Catholics in England as she had promised His Holiness all those years ago.
‘Is this my cloak?’ she asked, reaching for the plain peasant garment the groom held out to her. Denbigh shrugged apologetically and helped her into it.
She smiled at him reassuringly. ‘C’est sans importance. It is warm and dry and I am grateful to be in the company of such a kind and loyal lord.’ She wanted to ask for reassurance. You are loyal, my lord, are you not? But she did not. ‘You have procured for me a fine mount.’ Then she took his hand as he assisted her into the saddle.
They did not try to talk above the pounding hoof beats. After a few miles the mist lightened. A bashful crescent moon flirted with coy clouds, making hulking shadows of the trees, but at least the path was better lit. Her companion rode only slightly ahead, watchful of her pace. She had to trust him. The way was not at all familiar, the muddy road hardly more than a narrow path. Were Roundheads hidden in the black hedgerows? Spies, watching her every movement?
Who could one trust? Even among one’s closest confidants, the earth beneath one’s feet shifted with each new day. Like poor Susan Feilding who cried day and night and wrote letters pleading with her son. Henrietta had not the heart to tell Lord Denbigh that she already knew their son had gone over to Parliament’s side. Or like the Percy family—young Henry Percy so loyal, so kind to her, entertaining her, carrying her messages from Den Haag back and forth at his own peril, and Lady Carlisle his sister, who over the years had befriended her Queen and now somehow managed to wrest guardianship for the royal children from Parliament. She still trusted Lucy Hay, didn’t she? But then there was the elder Percy brother, Northumberland, once the King’s Admiral, now Parliament’s Admiral and her husband’s enemy, directing the very cannon fire from which she was fleeing.
Finally, the path opened out into a meadow, revealing a carriage in silhouette. Her companion waved and spurred his horse to close the furlong between. Here was refuge, she thought as Denbigh reined in his mount. The men spoke softly but she heard the driver of the waiting carriage say they were ready to receive her as best they could under these hurried circumstances.
Not waiting for assistance, she dismounted, then checked her eagerness. Charles had known about the original hiding place. She had written him. He had answered that he would be far afield and could not risk meeting her but the Earl of Newcastle could be counted on to protect her. ‘Has his Majesty been apprised?’ she asked as Denbigh helped her into the carriage.
‘We are dispatching a message to him.’
‘And news of Tromp’s fleet? Did it discharge its cargo and my belongings safely?’ she asked suddenly breathless.
Denbigh smiled. ‘Yes, your majesty. All is well. The Earl of Newcastle has diverted all northern forces to protect your arms and your men are already under his command—until their Queen arrives, of course.’
‘My ladies? Jermyn and young Percy?’
‘Clean away. Roundheads gave chase, but they were too far behind. Except for our little side adventure all went as planned.’
‘My accoutrements?’
‘Your necessary possessions have already arrived at York. Henry Jermyn is in possession of the rest of your trunks. They will be delivered to Handsworth Manor with a small contingent of your guard and soon will also be under the protection of William Cavendish, the Earl of Newcastle. It should be safe for you to travel to Handsworth in Sheffield within the week. Until then, I shall be your most obedient protector and servant.’
This was a disappointment. She had hoped to join Charles in Oxford within the week. But at least Sheffield was south of here, closer to him. Ever closer. She was also anxious to see for herself the safety of her belongings. Packed away in various trunks of satins and household goods was a gift for her husband: a million English pounds. Pray God, it would be enough to restore his kingdom to him.
When she next saw John Pym, Lucy was in the salon with the children, reading them a letter from their mother, enjoying their pleasure in hearing that Henrietta would see them ‘before Eastertide.’
‘Stay strong my darlings,’ the letter said, ‘until that time. Obey Lady Carlisle. She is our friend. And do not worry about Maman. Jeffrey and Mitte keep me entertained and Henri and Jeannette see to my comfort. I pray for you each night and morning. I hope you are keeping up with your devotions. I am bringing gifts for you.’
A relief, Lucy thought, to read that the Queen still called her friend.
‘Gifts? Madame, does she say what gifts?’ Elizabeth’s eyes sparked with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. ‘Maman is bringing us presents, Henry.’
The child stopped banging his wooden horse against the floor and held it out to his nurse. ‘Hungry,’ he said. His nurse laughed and picked him up, offering him her breast. Lucy was thinking it must be time for him to be weaned, when she heard the large brass knocker on the door and old Carter’s thump-slide walk to answer it. Seconds later, she looked up to see John standing in the doorway, smiling at them.
‘This is a pretty domestic scene,’ he said, with a smile. Whilst the nurse covered her breast with her shawl, he gave a half bow, ‘My lord, and my ladies.’
‘Mr. Pym. How glad I am to see you. Are you alone?’
‘Quite alone.’
‘Can you stay for refreshment? We can retire to my apartment to discuss our business. I’ll have cook send up something.’
‘That would be most welcome, my lady. If I could have but one hour of your time, perhaps? We have much to discuss.’
Glancing at the nurse, Lucy said, ‘See that we are not disturbed, Collette. Take the children down to the kitchen and ask cook for some bread and fruit and cheese. See if you can’t coax Henry to some … real food. Mash some fruit with honey, perhaps, and give him a taste.’ The girl nodded. ‘Also, Princess Elizabeth should practice her letters. Her new tutor will be here tomorrow.’ Then in response to a tugging on her sleeve, ‘Yes, Princess Elizabeth, what is it?’
‘The gifts from Maman, Lady Carlisle, did she say—?’
‘No, my lady, she did not. You shall just have to wait and be surprised. Try to exercise some patience, dear. It is a virtue.’
And with that she led her visitor out of the salon and up the stairs to her bedroom where she quickly locked the door.
‘But you promised me refreshment, Countess. No servant can get in,’ he said in mock surprise.
‘No servant is needed, my dear Mr. Pym,’ she said as with eager fingers she began to remove his shirt, inhaling the smell of him, wanting to feel his skin against hers, his hands on her body, chasing away the memory of the long lonely nights.
As she pulled his head down to meet her lips, he said, ‘But you just said, patience is a virtue.’
‘If that is true then I have such a surfeit of virtue I can lend some to the devil. I have been patient long enough.’ Suddenly clumsy, she tried to unfasten her skirt.
‘As have I, my lady. As have I.’ He moved to help her, but his need suddenly seemed as urgent as hers. Together they fell upon the bed in a tangle of silk and lace and garters, and only after their first passion was sated did they lie together, skin to skin, pounding heart to pounding heart.
When he was completely spent and sleeping, she marked how his body had changed. His collar bone was more pronounced and the extra flesh around his waist had melted away. As she studied his face, she noticed hollows in the once round cheeks and that his cheek bones protruded sharply. It was a wonder how a man so thin could muster such passion. Almost she regretted having pulled some life force from him that he might later need. Almost. She pressed her lips to the hollow in his neck gently, feeling his breath on her cheek. She noticed a sweetish smell like overripe fruit fermenting into rottenness. It did not repel her exactly, but his breath usually tasted of spearmint leaves.
She dressed and tiptoed down the stairs to get him some food. On her way back up she passed by the salon. It was empty. Collette would have taken the children back to the nursery by now for their afternoon naps. By the time she returned to her chamber with a repast of chicken with goat cheese and bread and a tankard of perry, John was sitting on the side of the bed, pulling on his leggings. She helped him with his boots, then he bent down to kiss her lightly on the lips.
‘Later, my love, she said, laughing. ‘You need sustenance after such rigor.’
But he ate little. Urging him on, she fed him a bite or two of the chicken from her own hand, ever playing the coquette, how could any man refuse such tender ministrations from so willing a hand. His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed and she lifted a cup to his lips. ‘This too. It is a sweet concoction of cream and eggs and honey. It will strengthen you.’
Swallowing as she spooned it into his mouth, he said, ‘Did I not seem strong enough?’
‘Oh yes. Very vigorous. It is just that I can’t help but notice that you are losing flesh. And I would keep every inch of you. You are too burdened with the affairs of Parliament.’
He took a couple more spoonfuls of the milky substance and then shook his head.
‘It is enough to burden Samson. Parliament is so,’ he paused to search for the word, ‘disparate in its opinion and there are some very immoderate forces that are difficult to control. Where once we had a common goal to force the King to a more reasonable governance, now it is all splintered. The Baptists want a huge model army of godly soldiers to fight for individual freedom—every man his own priest—and the Presbyterians are pressing to align with the Scots Covenanters who want England’s Church run by their bishopric. They think the fight is over what words we use when we pray. Then there are the Levelers, who just want to scrap all authority, no kings, no nobility, no ruling class, just agreement by the people—as if the people could ever agree on anything except free bread and ale.’
He stood up and started to pace with surprising energy, his voice strident. Lucy watched in growing alarm as he ranted.
‘Even Parliament can’t agree. My God they are all so unreasonable. Your cousin Essex has lost control of his troops. They conduct themselves more like brigands than soldiers and the treasury is being drained by the Trained Bands. The Mayor of London wants his own city state. He never stops pressing for money for a new bridge because the old one is so clogged with traffic and riff-raff that shipments are delayed. Hell’s bells. Even if we could come up with the money, the Watermen’s Guild is hard against it. Too many factions, too many voices. It is just all too much.’
And then suddenly he sat down hard on the bed, his head slumped in his hands. Lucy was stunned at the swiftness with which the storm bled out. He was a picture of dejection. ‘Here, my dearest, take another sip.’ She held the cup to his lips. ‘I put a little sherry in it too.’
He pushed it away with a slow shake of his head and said in a low monotone, ‘I can’t take sherry; it gives me pains in the stomach.’
‘It is worry that is giving you pains in the stomach, my darling. Do not let it trouble you so. Some things are simply beyond your control. Accept that and you’ll feel better.’
He looked at her with an expression of intense sadness. ‘It’s all coming apart, Lucy. How did we get here? I don’t understand how we came to this place.’
He sat like that for a long minute or two. The house was quiet, then a small thin cry. Baby Henry waking from his nap. Finally, he lifted his head and looked at her with a beaten expression in his eyes.
‘Do you know what they did yesterday?’
They? But she just shook her head, waiting for his lead, knowing instinctively that he was not finished.
‘Clotworthy and some of the others.’
Clotworthy. Her mind searched for the name then finally it came. ‘Clotworthy. Isn’t he your brother-in-law?’
‘I am ashamed to own it. He is a brute. A stupid man.’
‘What did he do, John?’
‘He led a bunch of ruffians into the Queen’s Chapel at Somerset House and vandalized it. Broke apart the alabaster saints, took away the golden trappings on the altar—they have probably already been melted into coin to buy weapons.’
Beneath the quiet utterance she could hear the clang and clash, the splintering of an iconoclastic rampage. She had refused to worship at that Roman altar, but Henrietta had taken her there once to admire the magnificent altar piece painted by Master Rubens. Henrietta loved that chapel almost as much as she loved her Charles and her children. Lucy felt her heartbeat quicken. John’s voice was now so low she had to incline her ear.
‘There was a painting of Christ behind the altar. A huge colorful piece, not plain enough for my taste, but well done. The suffering of the man on the cross was palpable, his agony transforming paint and canvas. The Word made flesh before our eyes. It was as though Christ himself was dying on that cross. But not to Clotworthy. Calling for a halberd, he struck the face, swearing at it, profaning it with words unfit for pretty ears.’
‘You saw him?’
‘I arrived just as he ripped the painting to pieces with the hook of his halberd.’
Lucy, being a good Presbyterian, had no particular love for images. But even she had been moved by this one. It possessed a physical kind of power that could draw even a Protestant into the passion of Christ’s suffering. But apparently not a Puritan. ‘Did you try to stop him?’
‘It happened so quickly. Have you ever tried to interfere with an enraged Irishman? He was fierce, attacking that painting with a fury that approached madness, as if he were attacking a living enemy.’
‘Perhaps it can be restored.’
‘What his men could not rip up they threw into the Thames,’ he said with a sigh.
Then he raised his head and looked directly in her eyes. ‘I fear our righteous anger has spawned a fury that has opened the earth and loosed hell’s demons. If that is true then God help us all,’ he said. ‘Next time it may not be paint and images but the blood of the innocent and the flesh of the saints.’
Shortly after, he left, pleading he must get back to his duties. A dark spirit settled over Lucy as she thought of the sleeping children and for the first time wondered if she could keep them safe from such an unrelenting hatred. She wondered too how Henrietta could bear being separated from them.
‘I am managing well enough,’ Caroline said, trying to put on a brave face. The Powells had enough problems of their own without being burdened by hers. ‘Although last night I thought I heard musket fire.’
She did not say that William’s farm manager had either run off or been conscripted; she didn’t know which. He just failed to appear one day without notice of any kind. She didn’t say either that she had to let the housekeeper go and the grooms had run away and she slept with William’s loaded pistol at her side—when she slept. Most nights she just lay awake listening for strange noises, her heart pounding in her chest until the creeping, gray light. Then she would fall into a troubled half-sleep for an hour or so until her long day of trying to keep mind and body together started all over again.
They were outside St. Nicholas’ church, Sunday services having ended—to Caroline’s great relief. The preacher had droned on about supporting God’s anointed until Caroline had begun to wonder if God’s anointed was sitting in the back pew. She still had the chickens to feed and the sheep to tend. One of the ewes was about to deliver. Lord help her. Lord help me too. She had never been present at a lambing. She had thought to ask Squire Powell if he could help if there were problems, but he seemed so burdened she decided best not to trouble them. Maybe fortune would smile, and she would just go out to the barn and find the little lamb happily nuzzling at its mother’s teat. And maybe the faeries had left her a pot of gold beneath a painted rainbow on the stall wall.
‘Caroline, come stay with us. Richard promised William. He frets about your being there all alone. I do too,’ Mistress Powell pleaded. ‘Mary would love your company. It would be like old times.’
‘Not to worry. I’ll come if the fighting gets closer. But right now, William’s prize Merino pair is all the stock he has left. I need to watch out for them. He will need something with which to rebuild the herd when he returns.’
‘You could bring them here, though I cannot promise they will be safe from the raids. The King’s men come here weekly demanding resources. I cannot even promise the Squire wouldn’t donate them in a moment of weakness. He is that besotted with the idea of putting down the rebellion. Have you heard from William?’
‘Not for a fortnight. One of the King’s scouts was passing on his way to Oxford and brought me a letter. William assured me he is safe and well. He’s been put in charge of provisions for his garrison which is in Gloucester now but is soon to be made quartermaster and may be transferred back to Oxford.’
‘That would be wonderful. He would be so close, he could come home once in a while.’
‘Even if he can’t, I’ll know I could go to him in a pinch. But wherever he goes it is a relief to hear that he will not be in the cavalry or infantry. William is hardly fit enough for battle. Not like the younger men. How is everybody holding up? The Squire looks particularly distracted.’
‘The children hardly know there is a war. I can tell you that though I am sorry for Mary’s marital problems—I would like to put my sturdy hands around John Milton’s throat—but right now it is such a blessing to have her here. It is the Squire I worry about. He seems to retreat into his stock of strong cider with alarming frequency. I don’t suppose I have long to worry about that though, because it is rapidly depleting along with all our other foodstuffs. The King’s commissar sent some soldiers from Oxford asking for grain yesterday. Richard gave them ten bushels of corn and a barrel of salt pork he’d cellared away for safe-keeping against hard times. When I questioned him about giving up the stores so easily he told me not to worry, just to tend to my business.’
As if whether they had enough to eat was not her business, Carolyn thought.
Then Mistress Powell lowered her voice almost to a whisper. ‘Now he is saying that housing is short in Oxford. We might have to take in some of the King’s retinue. I am a loyal subject, Caroline, but I have my limits.’
‘You mean provide room and board to the King’s servants. But surely you would be compensated.’
‘Promissory notes. Like they give us for the food they take. I am surprised Richard even accepts that. Did you not see him nodding and smiling at the sermon?’
But Caroline was scarcely listening, distracted by the thought that maybe she could volunteer to take in a baker’s family or a chandler. Even if the King provided no remuneration for boarding except his goodwill, surely, she could share in whatever goods were produced. Fresh bread that she didn’t have to bake—or candles. She was running low on candles and didn’t want to raid her little hoard to buy more. Most nights she sat by firelight, dozing and jumping out of her skin at the rattle of a limb against a window, the hiss and split of a burning log, or the barking of the dogs.
Caroline grunted in understanding as she untied her horse from the tree limb where she had secured it and climbed up into the cart. ‘Tell Mary, I hope her fever is better so she can come to services next Sunday.’
Ann gave a wry little smile. ‘I’ll tell her. Though I think she feels uncomfortable … you know. Like people are gossiping, wondering why she is not with her husband, or he with her.’
‘I know. She can ride over and stay with me if we get some warm sunshine. I would love her company.’
‘Have you heard any news of how the war is going?’
‘The King’s messenger told me that the fighting at Maidenhead had been fierce and that the King had cut off the coal supply to London after he was denied access to Hull. At least we still have plenty of wood for fuel and are not like to run out.’ She nodded at the Powells. ‘I think the Squire is restless. He is motioning for you. I’d best get on too.’
Caroline flicked the reigns and the little mare headed down the muddy path away from the church. Thank God for the horse, she thought as they made the two-mile trek home, though she didn’t know how much longer she could feed any of the animals. The butcher was a friend of William’s and kept her supplied with meaty bones for the dogs. Though last time he’d apologized saying that excess bones were getting scarce as customers bought more meat bones than cuts now. She offered to pay, but he’d said not yet. Times were not so hard that he would deny the Splendid Pair.
Splendid and Pair—that’s what the two mastiffs were called, after the entry in William’s ledger. He always referred to the dogs as a unit asset until one day she’d demanded to know which one was Splendid and which one was Pair and, while she liked both the gentle giants, she preferred the one with the fawn-colored coat and wanted to know what to call him. ‘Well the one you choose, my darling, must of course be Splendid,’ he’d said with a smile. So Splendid became her friend and fierce protector. And now that she was alone on most nights he slept on the main hearth, though lately he was developing a nocturnal habit of waking her to be let out.
As the horse trotted homeward at a gentle clip, Caroline thought she saw something in the hedgerow. A flash of late sun caught in bare tree branches? A fleeting shadow seen out of the corner of her eye? Just an animal, she told herself, her heart beating a little faster. She heard sounds and saw shadows everywhere these days.
Approaching the yard, she saw no curl of smoke coming from the chimney. The whole place reeked of loneliness and neglect. What would William say, she wondered as she unhitched the mare and led her into the stall. Would he blame her?
‘Go easy, Lillybud. Only half a nose-bag today, old girl,’ she said, stroking the horse’s mane. The pretty little mare had been a wedding gift from William—her favorite gift. ‘We have to make this little store last until spring. I had to raid the puzzle chest to buy enough feed, but you have to share with the sheep or we will all starve.’
The miller had said he could no longer provide on credit, even Sir William’s, now that he was gone off to war. Only barter: edible goods, labor—or coin. He’d thrown in a cartful of sweet hay when she produced the silver—whether out of compassion or an attempt to keep a paying customer, she could not say. At least the winter was almost over. Spring would come soon. If she could just hold on until the pasture greened, maybe she could even plant a bit of garden. She’d found some seeds in the shed from last year’s harvest. Cook, who only came one day a week now, could show her how to get a start. But surely by then, either Parliament or the King would come to their senses, and the folly of this hellish war would be ended. Surely by then, William would be home. Surely.
That night, like most nights, Caroline slept fitfully in her chair, unable to sleep in the bed without the comfort of William’s body beside her. She jerked awake at every imagined noise, getting up once to let Splendid out. ‘You keep watch, now,’ she said to the big dog, who raised his black mask to her as though he understood. She watched as he did nature’s business to make sure he was not coming back in, but when he ambled across the starlit field, she closed the door and went back to her warm hearth. Once she thought she heard the dogs bark and got up again to look. But all was silent. Splendid was nowhere in sight. He’d probably gone to the barn to keep Pair company. The night was cold. She put a small log on the fire. That should hold until daybreak.
Exhausted, Caroline went to sleep and woke to a heavy silent dawn. Wearily she poked at the embers on the hearth, added some kindling and another log before swinging a kettle of water over the smoky flames. Her neck ached from sleeping in the chair. She stretched and looked out the window to fields covered with hoar frost. Maybe it would be a clear, bright day, Caroline thought, hoping for sunshine to lighten her spirit. She had not cried since she lost the baby and then only small, stifled tears lest she cause her husband more grief. Even when William left, her sadness cowered in a dry well. If sunshine could not lighten her spirit, it could at least warm her bones.
But the burden of those unshed tears was soon to be relieved, for when she entered the silent empty barnyard a few minutes later she called out to Splendid only to be met with silence. Ominous, unbroken silence. No rooster crowing, no barking dogs, no neighing horse answered her morning call.
Then she saw, slightly to the right of the barn door, the Splendid Pair. They lay inert, Pair’s bloody entrails spilling out on the ground, Splendid’s throat slashed, a bit of fabric still clutched in her massive jaws. That was when the crying began, first a trickle, old tears first, thick and heavy with the residual of clotted grief. Not knowing what second horror waited inside the barn, she staggered in like a woman in a dream. No horror. Only stillness making the space eerily unfamiliar.
The sheep were gone. And Lillybud’s stall was empty. She stood for a moment in stunned silence. A stream of freshly loosed tears poured down her face. It was almost funny. The way she’d worried about running out of feed. The sound of choking sobs filled the cold dead air around her. Her legs gave way and she sank down on the bales of sweet hay, hay no longer needed.
She sat that way for a long time, staring at Lillybud’s empty stall, wondering what she was to do now. Nothing left. No hungry sheep. No greedy pony. Not even a chicken left pecking in the yard. Only a neglected barn with a sagging roof.
With sudden fury, she seized a shovel leaning against the slats of the stall and, running outside, started to dig. Eyes averted from her beloved mastiffs, blade against unyielding ground, she pushed hard, like a woman in labor, until the ground began to give, slowly at first, then whole shovelfuls.
Flying over her shoulder.
Exploding into the air.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Like the beating heart of the earth.
As the hole deepened, her fury mounted.
King. Parliament.
Soldiers. Marauders. Thieves.
With each dive of her blade, she punished them all. And when she was finished, she half-dragged, half-carried the Splendid Pair into the giant hole in the barnyard. She would have buried all of them: all the evil ones who murdered and crushed and pillaged—if she could. Instead she buried innocence.
She was sweating when she finished, and the air was chilly. But the frost that had promised a clear sky did not lie and already she could feel the warming rays of the sun. She went to check in the hen house. It was as she supposed. Nothing was left except the walls and the poles on which the birds roosted. Scarcely a feather. She ran her fingers into the nests.
They had not even left one shit-speckled egg.
She remembered the flash and shadow she’d seen from the hedgerow, yesterday. Animals. The two-legged kind. With a slowly building rage, the kind of rage that builds false courage and dulls reason, she went into the house, retrieved the pistol from the mantle, and strode purposefully across the fields.
But when she entered the hedgerow, all she found were fresh footprints and, beside a dead campfire, one of the little bells from Lillybud’s harness. She snatched up the bell, swiping at the dust and ashes, and polished it on her skirt. It tinkled a sad little sound in the thin air. As she listened to that solitary tinny sound her rage gave way to a solid determination.
She would not be alone for long.
Tomorrow she would go in search of her husband. She would inquire first at the Oxford garrison. He might be there by now or they might know if he’d been posted there. It was not that far away. And unlike him, Caroline did not have to ask leave of anybody. If he knew how bad things had become at home, he might get leave to come home. Or make provisions for her to stay with him. Some wives did, she’d heard. Especially now that there was so little left to guard.
She returned to the house and straightaway began to plan. Her legs suddenly weak, she sank down beside the cold hearth and rested—but not long. She would have to write a note to Mary. There was no time to go by Forest Hill: not if she had to walk, and besides they would only try to talk her out of it. Going to William’s desk, she paused at the memory of him there, straight back slightly bent over his neat ledgers, pen in hand, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Tomorrow was cook’s day. She would need a note of explanation also. Caroline carefully removed two small cut pieces of paper and dipped the pen into the ink. When she had finished, she folded the notes, heated a blob of wax over a candle flame and pushed William’s monogram into it. She put Mary’s note on the little table beside William’s chair, propping it up prominently with her name on it. She knew cook could read. She’d given her lists before. She wrote COOK in large letters and placed hers on the kitchen table where she would be sure to see it. With cook’s note she would leave a few coins and a key asking her to check on the house from time to time until her return.
But first she needed something to eat and to gather up something to take with her. There were half a dozen eggs in the egg basket that she’d gathered yesterday. As they were boiling over the cookfire that she had to stoke, she opened the puzzle chest, retrieving all the coins. When she had eaten two of the eggs and the last of the pear preserves on a hunk of bread, she sewed some of the coins in the hem of her skirt. Others she sewed into a little belt that she would wear around her waist, next to her skin. What was left she placed in her token box along with the little harness bell and buried the box inside the almost empty cellar. Then a second thought sent her to her cupboard to retrieve Letty’s best pieces of silver—William would hate to lose these memories of his first wife—and buried them there also.
It was late afternoon by the time these tasks were done.
One more thing she had to do. Rumbling around in a clothing chest, she found an old pilgrim’s scrip of sturdy leather and broad strap, large enough to accommodate a fresh smock and skirt. The old pilgrim’s cloak she decided against. Nobody dressed as a pilgrim these days. It only invited harassment—or worse. She wrapped the pistol in a clean shift and put it in the bottom of the satchel. The cupboard offered the remainder of the bread, the other four boiled eggs and a bit of old cheese (with a knife to scrape the mold away). When she buried the box, she had discovered one lone withered apple and one more jar of summer pickles on a dusty shelf. These she tied with the other foodstuffs in a kerchief and placed all in the bag, weighing the bag in her arms. She could carry it easily enough with the strap over her chest to distribute the weight.
By this time the sky had turned to deep indigo. A woman alone dared not travel at night. Caroline sat down in her chair beside a dying fire and waited for day to break.