The contrast between the palpable hatred of folk in Wales and the deep respect of the people in Kilmer was a sharp reminder of the impact a man’s deeds had on his reputation. He’d be wise to remember that when he inherited the earldom.
He embarked on the slow, steady climb of Long Mountain, confident he had the makings of a good earl, especially with Sarah at his side.
* * *
Sarah had never sought spiritual guidance, wanting to avoid clerical censure as the daughter of a regicide and a wife who wished her husband to the devil on a daily basis.
However, those resentments belonged in the past. Her mother had remained deeply religious in spite of everything. Perhaps answers to the worries that plagued Sarah were to be found at St. Martin’s. Reverend Grove was a kindly man who had never censured her or her parents.
She put it to Giles as they ate oatmeal for breakfast. “Would you like to accompany me to church this morning?”
He looked askance. “I didn’t know you were a church-goer. Am I supposed to offer a prayer of thanks for Mr. Battersby’s offer?”
She had deliberately refrained from mentioning the school, so his remark was hurtful. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Giles. The decision about the future is yours to make. I have worries of my own.”
He scooped out another spoonful of oatmeal, then paused. “If you’re worried about Mr. Pendray, there’s no need. He’ll be back as promised, and you’ll get married.”
The inevitable could no longer be avoided. “You realize that will mean moving to Scotland.”
He finished off his breakfast before replying. “I can’t go to Scotland if I’m at King Edward’s.”
It was a child’s reasoning. She was no closer to knowing what he might decide, and wondered about the wisdom of entrusting such an important decision to a child. It made sense for his future that he return to the school, but that wasn’t where his heart lay. However, the notion of taking him to Scotland opened up another hornet’s nest. How would Munro feel? And his parents?
“Are you coming with me or not?” she asked, getting up from the table. She didn’t mention her other quandary—the fate of Addison and Hogg. Giles had no love for either boy.
He shook his head. “I’m going back to bed, since this is my day off.”
His churlishness was understandable given the upheavals he faced. He was still a boy, and his young life had already been torn asunder, so she didn’t rebuke him. “Very well. Away you go while I get ready.”
* * *
Munro came at last to an impressive, two-story gentry house surrounded by well kept gardens that stood in sharp contrast to the bleak landscape. The Welsh Pendrays were obviously not paupers. He reined his horse to a halt about a half mile away, contemplating the place where his father had been born. Made of grey stone, the building boasted three large attic dormers jutting out from the slate roof. Both floors had generous mullioned windows. It struck Munro that a dwelling in this rainy climate would need to let in as much light as possible. Smoke from two enormous chimneystacks, one on each gabled end, meandered its way skyward. Ominously low clouds hung over the house.
Grand as it was, he could understand why his father had left this brooding pile.
Gooseflesh marched up his spine when a youth carrying a musket appeared out of the house. There could be no mistaking that the weapon was pointed at him. He didn’t understand the Welsh diatribe that spewed forth, but they weren’t words of welcome.
“I dinna speak Welsh,” he shouted back. “I’m Munro Pendray come to visit my relatives.”
“Be gone,” the Welshman yelled in English. “You’re trespassing.”
As if sensing the tension, Fury became uncharacteristically nervous, dancing about like a frisky colt. Munro took a deep breath and tightened the reins. “Easy boy,” he soothed. “I’m a Pendray cousin,” he repeated.
The youth shook his head. “You’re a Scot.”
“Morgan Pendray is my father. I was born and raised in Scotland where he lives now. Are ye Aneurin’s boy?”
To his relief, the lad lowered the musket. “Grandson,” he replied. “My granda’s dead. What do you want?”
Munro deemed it a strange question. Did the youth think he’d come to claim the family fortune? “I came to see where my father was born, maybe meet some of my kin. Is yer father home?”
His relative waved the musket erratically. “Down at the pit.”
Evidently, he wasn’t going to be invited into the house, so he tried another tack. “Can ye take me there?”
He dismounted as the lad dithered, then walked towards him, arms wide to indicate he carried no weapon. “Munro,” he said, extending a hand.
“Bevan,” came the reply. “Follow me.”
It was apparent the handshake wasn’t going to be acknowledged, nor did Bevan offer to have his horse taken care of, so Munro led Fury behind him as they made their way along a well-worn path. He’d often hiked for miles in remote parts of the Scottish lowlands, but had never before seen a moor totally devoid of trees or bushes.
An opening came into view, a gaping maw in the side of the mountain. Men and boys scurried in and out pushing some sort of tram, like ants feeding the queen of the colony. Evidently, Sunday wasn’t a day of rest for the Pendray miners. His cousin strutted among them, barking orders. The only man who wasn’t black from head to toe had to be his cousin.
Bevan hailed him. “Da, you’ve a visitor.”
The scowling fellow who looked up and narrowed his eyes carried no weapon, so Munro considered it safe to walk towards him. He handed the reins to Bevan and announced, “Munro Pendray. Morgan’s son. Aneurin was my uncle. I’m sorry to hear he died.”
“Caradoc.”
For a moment, Munro thought he was speaking Welsh, then realized his cousin had volunteered his name.
Caradoc eyed him, perhaps looking for some sign of family resemblance. Munro could perceive none.
“What brings you here?”
He was beginning to wonder. Was it possible he’d stumbled across the wrong Pendray family? Either that, or the Welsh didn’t honor the bonds of kinship that were the cornerstone of every Scottish clan. “My father has often talked of his childhood in Wales,” he lied, “and I wanted to see the family home for myself, and meet his kin.”
“You came from Scotland?”
He should have simply said aye but, instead, got himself entangled in an account of the reason for the journey to Westminster, his decision to detour to Shrewsbury, then to Birmingham. He may even have mentioned Sarah and prayed he’d said nothing about Henry Marten.
Caradoc stared, then said, “You visited the Shrewsbury School?”
Munro grasped the lifeline. “Aye. I suppose Aneurin was a student there too?”
“No. Only Uncle Morgan got the privilege. He was their grannie’s favorite. Now he’s an earl, you say.”
“And you’re still working the mine,” he replied, immediately regretting his words.
Caradoc didn’t seem offended. “I suppose you want to see the pit?”
Munro had no such desire, but it would be churlish, possibly even considered rude to refuse. He glanced at the two stout timbers supporting the opening. “Aye, maybe just a peek, if ye dinna mind.”
The miners quickly moved away from Caradoc as he led the way into the mine. Clearly, he was feared. Munro smiled at several boys, who simply gaped at him, even their teeth blackened with coal dust.
“How far are we going?” he asked, his throat already constricted though they’d ventured only a few yards. His feet refused to carry him further into the dark tunnel.
Caradoc kept walking. “Goes on for about a mile, then it narrows.”
It wasn’t possible to stand up straight near the opening. Munro couldn’t envisage having to almost crawl deeper into the earth.
“That’s were the lads come in handy,” Caradoc said with a chuckle. “The younger the better.”
A peaceful certainty stole over Munro. When h
e returned to Scotland he would devote his time and energy to the abolition of what amounted to slave labor for children. His thoughts went to Giles. What would become of the lad when Sarah departed for Scotland?
His father had made the right decision in leaving his family, and thank God he had. The Welsh Pendrays had no honor. “I’ve seen enough, Caradoc.”
He turned back towards the light, gulping air when he emerged from the tunnel, his cousin not far behind.
Caradoc nodded to Bevan, still holding the reins. “You’ll be on your way then.”
“Aye,” he replied, anxious to be gone from this place and these people. “I thank ye for yer hospitality.”
He led Fury down the path and mounted as soon as the terrain allowed.
His Welsh relatives probably didn’t think highly of their Scottish cousin, but the feeling was mutual. As he made his way back to the town, he pondered the notion of ancestry and came to the conclusion a man ought to be judged on his own merits, and not condemned for the actions of blood kin. That was exactly the mistake he’d made on first learning the truth about Sarah’s father, and he resolved never to make the same mistake again.
* * *
Sarah lingered at the rear of the church after Matins in order to make sure she was the last to leave as Grove bid his parishioners farewell.
He reached for her hand. “You have things on your mind.”
“Yes,” she acknowledged.
“The Scot?”
“No. I’m not worried about Munro. I’ve agreed to be his wife.”
Grove patted her hand. “Good. I’m glad of it. He’s a fine man.”
“The situation does present difficulties, however.”
He gestured to the graveyard. “Let’s walk and you can tell me.”
She explained her concerns about Giles, and the shop.
Grove nodded thoughtfully. “I’m confident you and Mr. Pendray will resolve those issues.”
They paused by her mother’s grave. “I miss her,” she admitted.
Grove chuckled. “See what I mean? Things sometimes have a way of sorting themselves out.” He arched a brow. “Especially if we pray on them.”
“There is another matter. The lads who tampered with Battersby’s remedy.”
The minister steepled his hands and tapped his chin. “Yes, I am concerned. Justin’s father has tried every means at his considerable disposal to avoid his son coming to trial, but the magistrate is adamant Battersby wants them prosecuted.”
“I heard it will take place on the morrow.”
“Yes. What is it that troubles you about it?”
“I can understand the headmaster’s anger. I’m angry that they tried to make me and Giles their scapegoats. However, I truly believe their intent was to inconvenience Battersby, not kill him. Amanita muscaria can be found in most kitchens. The cook should have made sure the mushrooms were stored out of harm’s way, not readily available for the boys to steal. They must be punished, but the possibility they might be hanged…”
“Then you must speak on their behalf.”
The instinct to stay unnoticed in the background reared its head. “I couldn’t do that.”
“Courage, dear child. Mr. Pendray will surely escort you? He had no trouble speaking up for Giles.”
Sarah recognized that Munro would indeed have insisted on explaining the extenuating circumstances. “He’s in Wales, visiting relatives.”
“In that case, I will accompany you.”
Monday Morning
Munro decided to forego the apparently daily mutton breakfast at The Mermaid on Monday morning. He’d slept surprisingly well in the tiny room. The brief visit to his relatives might be considered a disaster, but he’d learned a lot about himself, and his father. He also had a clearer idea of the horrendous working conditions endured by too many people.
He paid for his lodging and bade the gruff landlord a hearty farewell.
“You met the Pendrays, then?”
“Aye.”
“You didn’t stay long.”
While Caradoc and Bevan Pendray weren’t relatives to boast about, they were still kin. “Nay. I’ve pressing matters to attend to in Birmingham. I’m getting married.”
A toothless grin split the rugged face. “I don’t suppose you invited your Welsh kin to the nuptials.”
Munro laughed. “Definitely not.”
The landlord joined in the laughter. “Good journey to you, young gentleman, and all the best to your bride.”
Given the clearer skies, Munro took his time following the road back to Shrewsbury. He saw a raw beauty in the barren landscape he hadn’t appreciated in the downpour. He crossed over the border into England, glad Sarah had pushed him to make the journey. He couldn’t wait to tell her about his experiences.
Reining to a halt, he glanced back at the land of his forebears. “Thank you, Grannie Pendray,” he declared to the lonely hills.
After returning Fury to his owner, he arrived back at The Lion in time for a late lunch, checked to make sure he still had a seat on the Birmingham coach and spent the remainder of the afternoon wandering around Shrewsbury on foot.
* * *
Giles stared in disbelief when Sarah told him of her plan to speak on behalf of Addison and Hogg. He left half a bowl of oatmeal uneaten and stomped back downstairs without a word.
That he’d not finished his breakfast was a measure of his consternation.
She dressed in her most Puritan outfit and was ready to unlock the door when Grove knocked.
His influence proved beneficial at the courthouse. They were taken to the barrister retained by Mr. Addison to defend his son. Sarah had never met the iron magnate but surmised who the agitated man with the barrister must be.
He looked down his long nose when she was introduced. She understood. If it was her child on trial…
It struck her like a bolt of lightning she’d felt the same desperate sense of impending personal loss when Giles was dragged off to the cells. In a very short space of time, the young orphan had insinuated himself into her heart.
Addison’s icy demeanor quickly softened when Grove explained her reason for being there. “You wish to speak on my son’s behalf?”
She nodded, but he seemed to be overlooking something. “For both boys.”
“Excellent,” the barrister exclaimed. “I’ll need your full name and occupation, then we’ll get you seated with the other witnesses so you don’t have to be summoned from the public gallery.”
She stammered out the required information, faltering at the mention of other witnesses. It was unlikely anyone else was there for the defense. However, Grove was despatched to the gallery and she was escorted into the courtroom, relieved to discover she was the only person seated on the witness bench.
The gallery was packed, but a man in the back row gave up his seat for Grove. She smiled weakly at the minister, as much to reassure herself, but quickly looked away when she realized everyone was staring at her. Men exchanged conversation with their neighbors, no doubt speculating on who she was and why she was there.
Her courage faltered when the stern-faced Beadle escorted the school matron into the witness bench. Both sat.
The matron gave her a tight smile. “Poor Mr. Battersby wanted to come, but he’s still too weak. I intend to tell the court how he suffered at the hands of those miscreants. Nigh unto death he was.”
Sarah squirmed. The Beadle would also testify for the prosecution. The desire to flee intensified when the constable who’d assisted with the search of Addison’s rooms joined them.
By the time the magistrate entered, Sarah was sweating and could barely make her legs work as she stood along with everyone else. Her gaze wandered over the crowd in the gallery, the barristers and their clerks, the magistrate, and finally the two boys who were manhandled into the dock. Every face betrayed the conviction Justin Addison and his co-accused were destined for the gallows.
A tremor took hold as she sat, but it had nothi
ng to do with this trial. An inkling of what her father must have felt as he faced his accusers swamped her like a giant wave. Every other surviving regicide had been sentenced to die a gruesome death.
However, by all accounts, Henry Marten had not quaked with fear. Indeed, he’d mounted an inspired defense and saved his own neck.
The truth of it gave her courage. She had to try to save the terrified schoolboys from the noose. It was her moral duty. She closed her eyes, listening to the little voice in her head. “I’m proud of thee.”
“Thank you, Mama,” she whispered.
The prosecuting barrister laid out his case. The Beadle was called to give an account of what had happened. The constable supported his testimony. The magistrate nodded several times. He’d been there after all. The matron broke down, sobbing as she recounted at length the dire effects of the mushrooms on Mr. Battersby. Sarah privately thought the proud headmaster wouldn’t want everyone to know he’d babbled inanities while in the throes of hallucinations.
Through it all, she felt strangely calm. When the defense barrister called her name, she walked with purpose to the witness box and took the oath, ignoring the matron’s gasp of disbelief.
“Please state your name and tell the court your interest in this matter.”
“Mrs. Sarah North. I am the apothecary who compounded the remedy for Mr. Battersby.”
She related events as she knew them. The magistrate eventually lost patience with the growing buzz of chatter from the gallery and banged his gavel.
“Therefore,” the barrister declared when quiet was restored, “the defendants are indeed guilty of tampering with the remedy.”
She risked a glance at Mr. Addison who’d managed to get himself a seat in the front row. “Yes, but…”
“Objection,” the prosecuting barrister exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “Even the defense’s witness confirms their guilt. There is no but.”
“Overruled,” the magistrate replied. “Mrs. North evidently has something to say which she feels has a bearing on the case. We must remember these young men face a charge of attempted murder. Proceed.”
Kingslayer's Daughter Page 17