Kingslayer's Daughter

by Markland, Anna

  “Giles?” she asked as soon as she saw him.

  “Charges dismissed. ’Twas Addison poisoned the Headmaster.”

  She inhaled deeply. “Thank you.”

  He nodded to the body. “Mary passed peacefully?”

  “She didn’t want to live without him any longer,” Sarah replied hoarsely.

  Munro hunkered down in front of her and put his hands on her arms. “Ye may have mixed feelings about yer father, but yer parents shared a great love.”

  She met his gaze. “Mixed feelings? I’ve hated him almost my entire life and resented my mother for loving him more than she loved me.” She gripped the satchel. “I thought he didn’t care about me and my sisters. I was wrong.”

  “And Mary convinced ye otherwise?”

  She patted the satchel as tears welled. “I read his letters. They were in the satchel my mother was so protective of.”

  He wanted to coax out the truth but was honor-bound not to give away his secret. “I thought they lived together?”

  “They were parted, until he was…until he went to Chepstow.”

  He tried a different tack. “So the satchel contains love letters?”

  She smiled weakly. “At least a hundred.”

  Munro chuckled. “The man was smitten. I ken the feeling. Speaking of feeling, these long legs o’ mine are getting cramped. Can I sit ye on my lap and offer my condolences?”

  Elated when she nodded, he helped her stand, then sat in the chair and pulled her into his lap. “Mayhap I’ll write love letters to ye so I can win yer heart.”

  “You’ve already won it,” she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder.

  The urge to leap to his feet and carry her around the room, crowing like a rooster, was powerful. He was more than content with this major victory, confident Sarah would soon be free of the ghosts of the past.

  The enigmatic smile on Mary’s face told him she knew it too.

  * * *

  “I found out a lot about my father from the letters,” Sarah confessed, still clutching the satchel. She would eventually have to show the contents to Munro, but wasn’t fully ready yet to let go of the past. The wounds went deep and would take a long time to heal.

  “Tell me.”

  “He had a nickname for me.” She might have known Munro would simply wait for her to reveal it. “Poppet.”

  “Do ye like it?”

  “I suppose, though I wish I’d heard him call me that when I was a child.” The revelation startled her. “I don’t even know what his voice sounded like.”

  Some might deem it odd that they sat beside a dead woman while Sarah sorted out her emotions, yet it seemed natural, as if her mother was content to listen.

  “He asked if his daughters had inherited his facial features, or his intelligence, or his sense of humor.” She chuckled. “I never thought of him having a sense of humor.”

  “Well, I dinna ken what he looked like, but I’d say it takes intelligence to become a successful apothecary.”

  She sighed. “It’s going to take a long time to reestablish the shop now.”

  “Giles will help ye, as will I.”

  She sighed, almost wishing he’d suggested leaving the shop behind and going off to Scotland with him. But she hadn’t told him her secret yet, and besides she knew nothing about him, other than that he was a Scot. “Ye’ll have to learn Latin,” she teased.

  “I ken a wee bit. I studied law at Edinburgh University.”

  “My father was a lawyer,” she replied, revealing another tiny piece of the puzzle. “And colonel of a cavalry troop he mustered during the Civil War.”

  “To fight for Parliament,” Munro replied.

  She held her breath. “How did you know?”

  “’Tisna hard to fathom,” he explained with a grin. “Thy mother didna strike me as an ardent Royalist.”

  She laughed out loud. The hunch that Munro Pendray would fill her life with mirth wasn’t far off the mark. But would he still be smitten when he learned the truth? “Your parents are Royalists.”

  He meshed his fingers with hers. “I suppose ye could say that.”

  There was more to the story than he was telling her. Was he keeping secrets too? “What about you?” she asked.

  He hesitated before replying. “History has always fascinated me. ’Tis easy to sit in judgment of what people did, for example during the Civil War. But we weren’t there. Who kens what we might have done? My mother was a Royalist spy who seethed with anger that her king had been beheaded. However, my father served in Cromwell’s army.”

  “They were on opposite sides?”

  “Aye, but my father eventually worked with other influential people to bring about the Restoration of the monarchy, and if ye asked my mother today about King Charles II she’d probably say she’d like his guts for garters.”

  “My father changed his mind about Cromwell,” she admitted. “He says in one of his letters he wouldn’t have condoned the execution if he’d known what a tyrant the Protector would become.”

  Sarah had never given birth to a child, but it struck her the process must be much like what was happening now. The closer she got to the truth, the more intense the pain.

  “He supported the king’s execution?”

  The burden she’d carried for too many years was about to see the light of day. It was as if Munro was a midwife helping her deliver the news. “He signed the death warrant. His name was Henry Marten.”

  The dwelling didn’t fall down. The earth didn’t swallow her up. Mary didn’t rise from her deathbed and shout Alleluia.

  Munro simply continued to sift his fingers through her hair. Gradually, the truth dawned. “You already knew, didn’t you?”

  “Aye, Mary instructed Grove to tell me. But I wanted ye to trust me enough to tell me yerself.”

  “How long have you known they lived in prison in Chepstow?”

  “Just a short while. I admit ’twas a shock at first, but ’tis ye I love, Sarah. There’s no other woman for me.”

  He lifted her as he stood, then sat her back down in the chair and went down on one knee. Heart racing, she reached over to put the satchel on the bed, next to her mother, where it belonged. However, she nigh on swooned when Munro said, “Before I ask ye to be my wife, I have my own secret to tell ye.”

  * * *

  Munro cursed himself for a fool. He should have waited until Sarah had agreed to marry him. She might scurry back into the insecurities of the past and her feelings of unworthiness. Nothing for it now but to blurt out the reality. “My father’s an earl.”

  She seemed to drift off into a wide-eyed trance as he babbled on about the reasons for the recent confirmation of the title. He described the ceremony, but decided not to mention that news of Henry Marten’s death was the reason for the interruption that irritated his parents to no end.

  Her response, when it finally came, wasn’t what he expected. “And you’re his heir.”

  “Aye, but…”

  She fidgeted with the lace of her cuff. “I’m barren, Munro. I cannot have children.”

  He couldn’t deny the news was shattering. Sarah was a woman made to bear and nurture bairns and he’d fantasized enough about her belly round with his babe. “I want ye as my wife, my lover, my companion, my helpmate, my countess when the time comes. If we canna sire bairns, so be it. Jewel and Grainger will eventually produce at least one lad to inherit the title.”

  “But your parents…”

  “Ye’re nay marrying Morgan and Hannah, any more than I’m marrying Mary and Harry-What’s-His-Name. Say aye.”

  She laughed. “Aye.”

  He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her lips, wishing he could demonstrate the depth of the love swelling in his heart and loins, but there were solemn matters to attend to. “Grove is downstairs.”

  She nodded. “Ask him to come up.”

  Wit And Wisdom

  Reverend Grove dispatched Giles to impart the news to St. Martin
’s sexton, then steepled his hands and intoned a prayer for Mary’s soul.

  Sarah felt like her head was stuffed with wet wool. Assailed by too many conflicting emotions, she was grateful for Munro’s strong grip.

  She’d agreed to marry the son of an earl. Was she mad? Nothing would come of it. However, her parents had been well aware there was no future for their passion, yet Mary had sacrificed everything to spend her last years with the man she loved.

  Sarah had always considered her mother a dimwit, a woman of little education who’d allowed herself to bear three illegitimate children to a man she could never marry. Mary’s wisdom, forbearance and sense of humor shone through on every page of her replies to Henry’s letters. He had kept and treasured them throughout his incarceration in various prisons. When Henry teased her, she gave back as good as she got. Sarah closed her eyes, tears welling when she conjured a vision of her father chuckling as he read Mary’s witty replies. His lover had sustained him despite facing hardships herself.

  Allowing Munro to read the letters—an inevitability Sarah had dreaded—was now something to look forward to. He would appreciate and enjoy the humor. It was important, too, that he learn more about her parents, as she had. The irony made her smile. She itched to share information she’d striven to hide all her life.

  Munro’s presence beside her was at once calming and exhilarating. The warmth of his hand, the strength in his arm pressed against hers, the sheer size of him in the cramped surroundings, filled her with overwhelming feelings of need. Reginald’s bulk had given rise to dread and eventually loathing. Now, she felt safe, treasured, and loved for the first time in her life. It was enough to make a girl dizzy. Indeed, she had to hold on to the table when Sexton Neville arrived with a shroud and Munro let go of her hand so he could assist with wrapping the body. Looking upon her mother’s face for the last time, she promised to be as loving, loyal and faithful a wife to Munro as Mary had been to Henry Marten.

  * * *

  Munro sensed Sarah’s turmoil by the way she gripped his hand and chewed her bottom lip. He worried the emotional toll of recent events might prompt her to renege on her promise to marry him, but so far she’d remained silent.

  Giles sniffled back tears. It was a sad truth the lad had seen too much death for one so young.

  Munro longed to take Sarah into his arms and kiss away the hurts, present and past. He acknowledged it might take a long time to free Sarah completely from her painful history, but felt confident he was the man for the job.

  He had to remember she’d spent years married to a drunken bully. He’d have to be patient with his lovemaking, prove to her that sexual congress could be pleasurable for both partners. He doubted she’d known anything but brutality with North.

  It was reassuring she didn’t rebuff him when the gravediggers arrived. She clung to him as they followed the two burly men who carried her mother’s body downstairs and loaded it on a waiting wagon.

  “Will there be need of a coffin?” Neville Sexton asked as the wagon pulled away. “Or…”

  “Aye, a wooden coffin,” Munro retorted before Sarah had time to consider if she could afford it. “And a marker. ’Tis the least I can do.”

  “Shall we say the morrow?” Grove asked. “Eleven of the clock.”

  Sarah nodded as Giles put his arms around her waist and leaned his head against her ribcage. Munro gathered them both in his embrace. The trio stood on the busy street watching the funeral wagon make its way slowly to St. Martin’s, Grove and Neville walking behind.

  Men doffed their hats, mothers turned children’s faces away, a few made the Catholic sign of the cross.

  “She’d be livid if she saw that Popish gesture,” Sarah whispered.

  * * *

  When the wagon disappeared round the side of the church, Sarah fished in her pocket for the remains of Battersby’s sixpence. “Go to the market, Giles,” she said. “See what you can procure for supper. You and Mr. Pendray must be hungry.”

  Munro tightened his grip around her shoulders when she shivered. “I could have given him coin.”

  “I know,” she replied, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to pay for the coffin.”

  “Again, ’tis my honor. Let’s go indoors.”

  She took a last look at Giles running towards the market. “He’s a remarkable boy. I never told him how glad I was you’d proven him innocent.”

  “He kens ye’ve just lost yer mother. ’Tis a loss he’s familiar with.”

  Force of habit caused her to inhale the aromas in the shop, and she was touched when Munro stood behind her, put his arms around her waist and filled his lungs. “Smells good,” he whispered.

  “I’ll miss this,” she confessed.

  “Nay need to discuss that now,” he replied. “Are ye ready to go back up?”

  She realized how lucky she was to have found a patient and understanding man. They were few and far between. In truth, she wanted to stay exactly as they were, his breath warm on her ear, his strong arms keeping her upright though she felt like collapsing in a heap on the planked floor. However, sooner or later, she’d have to face the apartment. “I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “As long as you’re with me.”

  “Forever,” he promised.

  Giving Thanks

  Sarah came to sit across the table from Munro. He reached for her hands. “Ye’re a beautiful woman and I’m a lucky mon.”

  “I don’t feel beautiful,” she replied, tucking an errant curl behind her ear.

  “Ye’re tired after an exhausting day.” He made a conscious effort not to glance at the bed. He’d been about to say she’d feel better after a good night’s sleep, but that was unlikely, unless…

  A rap at the downstairs door interrupted his musings. He held out his hand for Sarah’s key. “I’ll go.”

  Arms laden with foodstuffs, Giles nigh on collapsed against the door when Munro unlocked it.

  “Ye did well for less than sixpence,” he said, relieving the lad of a flagon of cider.

  “Funny thing,” Giles replied. “Some of the vendors refused to take any coin. The Reverend has spread the word about Mrs. Ward’s passing and what happened at King Edward’s.”

  Sarah met them at the top of the stairs and took one of the parcels. “I smell jellied eels.”

  “And black pudding and salted pork and bread and…”

  “Whoa, laddie. Catch yer breath. ’Twas kind o’ them.”

  Giles grinned. “True, but I think some of them were glad to be rid of the last stock of the day.”

  “It’s quite a spread,” Sarah said, arranging the food on the table. “You’re a resourceful young man, and it was remiss of me not to tell you how glad I am they found the real culprit.”

  “Only thanks to Mr. Pendray,” he replied.

  Embarrassed by the hero-worship in the apprentice’s gaze, Munro took a seat at the table and rubbed his hands together. “Ye’re right, Sarah. I am hungry. Well done, lad.”

  Sarah sat, but Giles dithered. “I’ll take a bit of black pudding down…”

  “Sit,” Munro commanded, reaching for the jar of jellied eels. “Ye’ll eat with us.”

  The boy obeyed, looking askance at the eels.

  Sarah cleared her throat. “I think Giles wants to offer a prayer of thanks.”

  Chastened, Munro bowed his head as the three joined hands.

  “For these Thy gifts we are about to receive from Thy bounty, we are truly thankful,” Giles prayed. “And thanks for Mrs. North and Mr. Pendray. I love them and I hope they get wed. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Munro echoed loudly. “Actually, young man, Mrs. North has agreed to be my wife.”

  Giles beamed a grin that lit up the room.

  * * *

  Giles asked a thousand questions during the meal, barely taking a breath between each one. When and where would the wedding take place? Surely it would be at St. Martin’s? Would Mr. Pendray help Mrs. North with the shop? Would they still need an apprentice?
>
  Sarah was relieved when Munro intervened. “Ye pose a lot of questions we dinna ken the answers to yet, laddie. A bellyache will result if ye dinna calm down.”

  The boy made a valiant effort to hold his tongue, squirming in his seat, until the yawning took hold and his eyelids drooped.

  “You’ve had a long and difficult day,” Sarah said. “Mr. Pendray will see you safely to bed while I clear up.”

  Munro stood and retrieved one of the candles from the mantle. “Aye. Come along. Off to bed. We’ve a funeral to attend on the morrow.”

  Giles slid out of his chair. “Goodnight,” he murmured.

  Sarah pecked a kiss on his cheek, earning another grin.

  They didn’t just take light with them when they left. Sarah busied herself clearing the table, trying to stave off the gloom and avoiding looking at the bed. She’d stripped off the sheets and remade it with clean ones, but still…

  Munro returned a short time later without the candle, yet the apartment seemed instantly brighter. “He’s asleep already,” he said with the smile that never failed to spark unfamiliar cravings in private places.

  She sat across the table from him and reached for his hands. “You should get some sleep too. You saved two lives today.”

  He shrugged. “’Twas purely selfish. If aught happened to ye…” He glanced at the empty bed. “I dinna think ye want to sleep here this night. I can get ye a room at the inn.”

  She shook her head. “Folk would gossip. My reputation’s in tatters as it is. Besides, I don’t want to leave Giles alone.”

  “I can stay if ye like. In the chair, I mean, so ye willna be alone. I promise to be a perfect gentleman.” He wiggled his eyebrows, filling her with an urge to invite him into her bed.