Kingslayer's Daughter

by Markland, Anna

  “I’ll show thee the grave, so thou can pay thy respects.”

  Sarah stifled the urge to scoff brought on by the old-fashioned Puritan speech and the absurd notion of showing respect for a traitor who’d fathered her out of wedlock.

  Their echoing voices drew a scowl from a curate fussing over candles near the altar.

  Mary led her to the chancel where a mason was on his knees, chiseling into a flagstone. “Thy father wrote his own epitaph.”

  “They buried him here? In the chancel?” Sarah asked with surprise.

  “Why not?”

  Sarah rolled her eyes, unwilling to voice the word traitor. “No reason.”

  The mason looked up, brandishing a faded piece of paper. “It’s clever. Each line begins with a letter of his name. See.”

  She peered at the half-finished epitaph.

  Here or elsewhere, all’s one to you, or me,

  Earth, air or water grips my ghostless dust.

  “There’s a line for every letter of his name, H…E…N…” her mother explained further. “Thy father was a man of education and wit.”

  Sarah clenched her jaw. She knew Henry Marten had been a lawyer and a member of parliament, but the epitaph seemed too pretentious for a man who’d killed a king. She stared at the flagstone, sickened by the thought of a body crammed into the small space beneath it—a faceless corpse, since she had no recollection of her father’s facial features.

  It was probable her sisters were unaware of his demise.

  She felt the curate’s glare. It was to be expected he would censure the whore and bastard of an adulterous traitor.

  “We should leave soon,” she told the unpleasant-smelling woman she still barely recognized. “I’ve inherited an apothecary shop, but I have to engage an apprentice or the Guild won’t grant me the license.”

  Her frowning mother kept her gaze fixed on the mason, seemingly unaware of the circumstances of her daughter’s recent widowhood. “I’d prefer to see it finished.”

  Sarah tamped down her impatience, quite sure there’d be no mention in the epitaph that Henry Marten had sired three illegitimate daughters. “We’ll miss the coach back to Gloucester. Do you have baggage?”

  Her mother patted the small satchel.

  Fuming, Sarah hefted her own portmanteau and led the way out of the church, praying she could at last be free of Marten’s tainted blood.

  Gloucester

  After being jostled around in a stagecoach for seven days, Munro had lost sight of the reason he decided to visit Wales on his way home from London. “If I’d accompanied my family back to Scotland via the Great North Road, I’d be almost there by now,” he grumbled to his fellow passengers.

  He’d made several failed attempts to engage the three men in conversation throughout the journey, so wasn’t surprised when his remark elicited only grunts. He surmised by their garb they were tradesmen or merchants, but they’d ignored his polite probing into their destinations and reasons for traveling the breadth of the country. Then again, his mother had warned him Englishmen had an ingrained mistrust of the Scots. He deemed it wiser not to mention he was the son of an earl.

  His inexplicable yet insistent desire to visit the country of his father’s birth meant the coach was only now pulling into the courtyard of the New Inn at Gloucester. He intended to visit Shrewsbury where his father had gone to boarding school, but that was still many days away, and even from there he’d have to travel further west into Wales. He supposed the others were as weary as he was, though he didn’t know their final destination.

  “Historic building this,” he commented, pointing up at the timber-framed coaching inn. “Did ye ken the proclamation of Lady Jane Grey’s ascension to the throne of England was made from yon gallery over a hundred years ago?”

  His companions gaped at him as if he’d spoken Greek. He cursed inwardly that he’d betrayed himself as a scholar who couldn’t resist sharing intriguing bits of historical trivia. They likely thought him a pedantic show-off.

  His parents’ opinion that his adventure was a lunatic idea perhaps wasn’t far off the mark.

  However, he’d admired the rolling hills and vast open spaces of the southern counties and stayed overnight in interesting places. He envied the adventures his parents had experienced in their youth, but hoped he’d never be called upon to make the kind of life-and-death decisions they’d made during Cromwell’s invasion of Scotland years before. No wonder it was difficult for King Charles to believe Munro’s mother had spirited the Scottish Crown Jewels away from Dunnottar Castle. He could scarcely believe it himself. Day to day existence at home in Kilmer wasn’t what one might call adventurous.

  He levered his stiff body out of the coach and stretched his aching back, resolved to be more positive about the miles that lay ahead. It was always possible the folks traveling with him on the next stagecoach would be more interesting.

  He’d paid an extra shilling for private rooms en route. The jovial innkeeper quickly took his satchel and led him up rickety stairs to a small chamber on the third floor. If Munro straightened his six-foot frame, he’d crack his head on the sloping roof beams, but the place was clean, if sparsely furnished. The linens appeared fresh and vermin-free. At least he’d be away from the noise of the tavern below. He wasn’t planning on being long out of bed after a meal in the dining room.

  He splashed his face with cold water from the ewer before descending the steep stairs. The landlord pointed the way to the privy in the rear courtyard. When Munro emerged, he breathed again, filling his lungs with the crisp evening air. He wiggled his fingers in the murky water of the horse trough and strolled to the dining room.

  The smoky air was redolent with the aromas of roasted meat, sawdust and ale, overlaid with the odor of too many unwashed bodies.

  He scanned the crowded room in the hope of espying an empty seat at a table of interesting-looking gentlemen. His hopes plummeted when it dawned on him all the men were farmers or sailors who’d dropped in for a tankard of ale after a day in the fields or on the docks. It was evident from the loud jesting and camaraderie that many were regulars. They eyed him up and down and he felt uncomfortably conspicuous in what they no doubt considered fancy raiment. His cloak, trews, waistcoat and knee-length woollen tunic were travel worn, but the quality of the tailoring was unmistakable. He was the only man in the room with a silk cravat at his neck.

  The one vacant seat seemed to be at a table tucked in a corner. It was occupied by two women. An elderly crone shrouded in a dowdy, grey frock and shawl with an unmatched bonnet sat beside a shapely young woman modestly dressed in an ankle-length red skirt and fitted jacket buttoned up to the neck. A riot of red curls overflowed from under a white muslin cap.

  They looked as uncomfortable with the local yokels as he felt, but the redhead appeared bright-eyed and intelligent. Hoping she might appreciate the company of a gentleman, he elbowed his way through the crowd and put his hand on the back of the empty chair. “May I share yer table, ladies?” he asked.

  The older woman kept her gaze fixed on the scarred surface of the round table, hands clasped as if in prayer. For a moment, he feared the scowl that marred the redhead’s face meant she was about to refuse and send him packing. He noticed she was hanging on to a small portmanteau perched on her lap as if her life depended on it.

  “Dinna worry,” he said. “I’m harmless.”

  He was relieved when she nodded, a trace of a smile replacing the scowl. Bowing slightly, he took his seat. “Munro Pendray at yer service,” he said.

  The older woman finally turned her head slowly and looked at him from beneath the brim of her bonnet. “Thou art a Scot.”

  He detected no hint of censure in her oddly-phrased remark, so he pulled the chair a little closer to the table and winked. “Aye. That I am.”

  The redhead gripped the portmanteau more tightly and quickly scanned the room as if looking for a means of escape. He wished he hadn’t come across as a philandering fool.
“Ye’re safe with me, and I smell a lot sweeter than these other folks.”

  He could only hope that was true after hours cooped up in the coach, but she relaxed visibly. Her smile nigh on robbed him of breath and produced pleasant stirrings at his groin.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I’m Sarah North and this is my mother, Mary. Women traveling alone can’t be too careful.”

  He toyed with the notion of reaching for Sarah’s hand so he could bestow a courtly kiss upon it, but doubted she’d let go of the luggage.

  “Are you taking the stagecoach on the morrow?” he asked.

  Sarah nodded. “For Birmingham.”

  He was strangely disappointed they wouldn’t be heading in the same direction. The mother clearly wasn’t interested in conversation, but he’d a feeling Sarah would be an amiable traveling companion.

  He might have known they were mother and daughter, though Sarah didn’t resemble Mary in the least. He’d wager life hadn’t been kind to the older woman, whereas Sarah’s clothing was of better quality and there was an air of determination about her. She was bound for the Midlands, but the accent was from the south.

  “Are ye going to Birmingham to visit relatives?” he asked, inhaling the tempting aroma of the three pies plonked on the table by the serving wench.

  “Rabbit,” the buxom girl declared. “I’ll fetch ale in a jiffy.”

  “No,” Sarah replied as the server flounced off. “I live there.”

  She cast a peculiar sideways glance at her mother that prompted another question from Munro. “And do ye live in the Midlands also, Mrs. North?”

  He stifled an urge to laugh at the unintentional contradiction when the color drained from Sarah’s face and the scowl returned.

  “My mother’s name is Ward,” she explained. “North is my married name.”

  “Oh,” he replied lamely, suddenly losing his appetite and wondering why the revelation left him feeling bereft.

  * * *

  Sarah dithered. The Scot who’d joined them was clearly a gentleman, but then she’d been taken in by her late husband’s polite demeanor upon first meeting him. She’d already divulged more personal information than was wise and hoped the mother she barely knew would keep her mouth shut about the past. She breathed on the knife and spoon, then polished them clean on her skirts before cutting into the delicious-smelling pie.

  Pendray smiled.

  She returned the smile briefly, uncertain what she’d done to amuse him. “Cleanliness is important,” she explained.

  “Indeed,” he replied. “Admirable.”

  “Yes, especially in my profession.”

  She leaned forward to dig her elbows deeper into the portmanteau, dismayed she’d let her tongue take over. The pie suddenly lost its appeal.

  He arched a brow. “And what profession is that, may I ask?”

  The heat crept up her neck. Now, she would have to reveal more, and her mother’s loud, open-mouth chewing didn’t help matters. At least the Scot was polite enough to pretend not to notice. “Apothecary,” she murmured after swallowing a bite of rabbit.

  “Really,” he replied, with a bright sparkle of interest in his eyes. “Yer husband is an apothecary?”

  It would be wise to simply answer in the affirmative but, instead, she said, “He was. I am a widow. I’ve inherited the shop.”

  Pendray stopped in mid-chew, but whatever he’d been about to say was pre-empted by her mother. “Just three weeks since,” she mumbled with her mouth full.

  Sarah was surprised that her own husband’s death had actually registered in Mary Ward’s brain, but Pendray’s eyes filled with genuine sympathy. “I’m very sorry,” he offered. “’Tis a heavy burden for one so young.”

  “Both of us widowed within a fortnight,” her mother interjected, sending gooseflesh marching across Sarah’s nape.

  Pendray put down his cutlery. “My condolences to ye, also, Mrs. Ward.”

  “We buried Harry a few days ago,” her mother went on, “in Chepstow.”

  Sarah’s heart careened around her ribcage. She’d never heard her father referred to as Harry, but that was evidently what Mary Ward called him. However, it was vitally important the handsome Scot not discover she was the daughter of Henry the Regicide. From what little she knew of Highlanders, they were Royalists to the bone. “Yes,” she confirmed. “I traveled south to pay my respects.”

  She felt her face redden at the blatant lie then plunged on in an effort to change the topic. “My Reginald’s unexpected death has left me in possession of the shop, though I’m obliged to take on an apprentice. It’s a guild requirement.”

  Pendray stared at her for a moment or two before resuming his meal. “To lose a husband and a parent in the space of a few weeks is heart-wrenching. I’ll be devastated when my father passes on.”

  She clenched her jaw, envious of his obvious love for his father. “Papa was old and in ill health,” she replied, glad she could finally speak the truth, though she’d never thought of Henry Marten as her papa.

  She silenced whatever her mother was about to say with a quick nudge of the knee under the table. “Mama is coming with me to assist in the shop,” she explained with more enthusiasm than she felt. Mary Ward would never be allowed anywhere near the medicinal preparations.

  “Ye’re a loving and considerate daughter,” Pendray replied, causing the last bite of rabbit pie to lodge in her throat. “And how will ye find this apprentice?”

  * * *

  Munro was intrigued. A woman who owned an apothecary shop was a rare find. He wanted to know more about Sarah and how she’d accomplished such a thing. Her mother’s abysmal table manners indicated a lack of education, whereas Sarah held her knife and spoon correctly and dabbed her pretty mouth with a napkin. She’d even cleaned the cutlery! The shop had come to her by way of inheritance, but he suspected an apothecary wouldn’t have chosen a wife who couldn’t assist him.

  “It won’t be easy,” she allowed in answer to his question. “I’ve heard of widowed apothecaries being taken advantage of by their apprentices.”

  The notion raised Munro’s hackles. He abhorred men who treated women badly. “In what way?”

  Sarah shifted in her seat, obviously uncomfortable. “The case of Widow Wyncke is well known. An apprentice named Henry Stirell abused her verbally and physically, even though her late husband was the Beadle of the Apothecary Guild.”

  She averted her eyes when she spoke of abuse, leaving him with an uneasy impression of her husband. He had an insane urge to offer his help in selecting an apprentice. She was a vulnerable woman who needed protection. “Surely there was some recourse?” he asked, trying to tamp down his disquiet.

  “She complained to the guild. Stirell was very contrite but he was allowed to stay with Widow Wyncke until he found another apothecary to take him on. It’s a cautionary tale for someone in my position.”

  Her words confirmed his fears, but he noticed happily she’d let the traveling bag slip to her feet. “Indeed. I suppose ye’ll look for someone who can read?”

  “Of course, and a basic knowledge of Latin would be an asset.”

  “Latin?” he blurted out too forcefully.

  She clenched her jaw. “The Pharmacopoeia is in Latin.”

  “And ye can read it?” he exclaimed, characterizing himself further as an insensitive clod. Why should he be surprised a woman who wasn’t a nun could read the dead language? “What I mean is, where did ye learn to read Latin?”

  The topic appeared to have stirred Mary Ward’s interest. Having devoured the last crumb of the rabbit pie, she gaped at her daughter. Evidently, she didn’t know much about Sarah, but it appeared they had lived many miles apart.

  He wished they could continue a private conversation away from the increasingly noisy crowd, but he doubted there was a quiet room anywhere in the establishment—except his chamber. He chuckled inwardly. If he got the intriguing Sarah up there, Latin would be the last thing he’d want to discuss.<
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  “At the Blue Coat School,” she replied softly, leaving him with the feeling she was reluctant to speak of it.

  Mary Ward clasped her hands together and fell back into her trance.

  * * *

  Sarah had never shared her experiences at Blue Coat with anyone, yet she felt a compulsion to tell the Scottish stranger seated across from her about the happiest years of her life. Was it the warmth in his blue eyes that made her feel he was trustworthy, or the lilting way he spoke?

  “It’s a school in Greenwich for girls of good families that have fallen on hard times,” she explained.

  He glanced briefly at her mother, but said nothing. It was a relief for Sarah not to have to explain what hard times meant for the offspring of Henry Marten.

  “The first year I learned to read, write and do sums. I had to memorize the catechism and learn Latin.”

  She didn’t mention that in the obligatory letters to her parents she refrained from mentioning the catechism and the Latin. Her Puritan father might have slit his throat on hearing such news.

  “And how old were ye then?” Pendray asked.

  “Twelve.”

  He nodded. “Still a bairn.”

  “In the second year, history and geography were added to the curriculum.” It had come as a shock to learn her father was considered a traitor and her mother a whore, but it dispelled the mistaken notion debt was the reason for confinement in various castles. It was the first inkling she had her parents were not married—to each other at any rate. Sarah suddenly understood why her surname wasn’t Marten.

  “And ye kept on with the Latin?”

  “It was expected. The following year, I embraced lessons in music, dance and singing.”

  She was glad when he smiled. “Sounds like ye enjoyed it.”

  “I did, but my sisters never wrote so I had no one with whom to share my love of what I learned.”