When the Splendor Falls

by Laurie McBain

  But the young girl standing just behind him suddenly gave a shrill cry that caused the little boy to squeal in fear, not having expected an attack from behind, especially when he was knocked down when his sister raced past him, flinging herself into the stranger’s outstretched arms.

  Steward Russell Braedon stared in disbelief as his sister was hugged tight. He eyed the tall man suspiciously, sensing now more of a challenge to his status as the only man in his mother’s life than he did any physical danger from the man he’d never seen before—at least, did not remember ever having seen.

  “Steward,” Althea said, smiling understandingly as she walked over to where he still sat on the floor, tears welling in his fear-rounded eyes. Bending down beside her son, she took her lightly scented handkerchief and dried his eyes, wiping the tearstains from his pinkened cheeks, then pressing a kiss against his forehead. “Come and meet your father, dear,” she said gently, holding out her hand to him, which he took shyly, his eyes wide with wonder as he stared at the tall man waiting patiently for him.

  * * *

  There was a festive mood in the great hall at Royal Rivers that night. Lys Helene and Guy sat with their heads together, excitedly going over their dreams for Travers Hill, for their wedding was to follow on the morrow. Michael Stanfield had even drawn up a set of plans for the new wing they hoped to build one day—although that was some way off. But it did not hurt to dream. Stanfield was standing now in front of one of Solange’s paintings, admiring it as he spoke with her, their conversation liberally sprinkled with foreign-sounding names of places both had visited during their travels, but even more incomprehensible was their talk of art, with both being very set in their opinions as they compared the merits of neoclassical and romantic painting against the new, unsentimental realism. Stanfield would be staying on at Royal Rivers for a while. He said he had nowhere else to go, and was willing to do a hard day’s work. His quest for vengeance, or perhaps justice, was over. Quite a shock had reverberated across the territory when the bodies of Alfonso Jacobs and Courtney Boyce had been found at Silver Springs, apparently having killed one another during a violent argument. No one had been able to reach Diosa and Luis Angel to inform them of the tragic death of their uncle.

  “This package arrived on the stagecoach with Nathan. He brought it with him from Santa Fe yesterday. I mistakenly opened it. It was addressed to Royal Rivers, and the Christian name, except for the letter N, was smudged. All that was legible was the Braedon,” Nathaniel apologized as he handed a thick leather-bound volume to his son, who’d been half listening to the talk around him.

  Neil raised a curious brow, wondering why someone should be sending him a book.

  “It’s inscribed,” Nathaniel told him gruffly, a strange look in his eyes. “You’ll forgive me, but I didn’t realize it was intended for you until I saw the inscription, and since I’d already committed the error of opening your package, I didn’t think you’d mind if I glanced inside the cover. The title was intriguing, and I found myself continuing to read until I’d finished the book. It was quite fascinating, and I imagine a very true account.”

  Turning the book over, an astounded expression crossed Neil’s face as he opened the cover and turned to the title page.

  THE DARING ESCAPADES OF CAPTAIN DAGGER’S BLOODRIDERS

  Or

  A Partisan’s True Account of Guerrilla Warfare behind Confederate Lines

  From a Diarist’s Daily Record of Events as They Happened; with Comments and Notes Thereof

  By John Yates Chatham

  Formerly of the Second Massachusetts; Topographical Engineer and Cartographer on General Meade’s Staff

  Army of the Potomac;

  Also Former Member of the Federal Raiders Known as the Bloodriders

  ILLUSTRATED

  With Ten Beautiful Color Plates and Twenty-five Detailed Sketches

  By the Author

  The splendor falls on castle walls

  And snowy summits old in story:

  The long light shakes across the lakes,

  And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

  Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

  Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

  Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  BOSTON

  JACOB ADAMSON

  Printer, Bookbinder, and Stationer

  1865

  Neil shook his head in disbelief. Lieutenant Chatham. The young, bespectacled lieutenant who’d seemed to have more of a chance than anyone he’d ever met of not surviving the war. The soft-spoken, serious-minded lieutenant had actually written the book of his experiences and personal impressions, his memoirs, that he’d claimed he’d have published one day.

  Neil smiled slightly as he noticed the portrait on the facing page. A fresh-faced young man with gold-rimmed spectacles, the round lenses giving him an owlish look, stared back at him. He seemed younger than ever without his beard, although he sported a fine-looking mustache and side-whiskers. His hair was neatly trimmed and combed, quite proper for Boston, as was the black broadcloth of his close-fitting frock coat and the starched perfection of his high-standing collar, but the casually knotted silk scarf and boldly patterned plaid waistcoat belied the fact that John Chatham had returned to his former life unchanged. He would never be quite as proper a Bostonian as he once might have been had he not ridden with the Bloodriders. The lieutenant had recovered from his wounds, his slow convalescence keeping him assigned to Headquarters in Washington, but his days as a Bloodrider had ended at Travers Hill. Which perhaps had been a blessing in disguise for all concerned, Neil speculated, recalling the near disasters caused by the lieutenant’s sincere, but at times awkward, attempts to be of assistance.

  Neil turned the page and read the following inscription:

  These Memoirs

  Of a Proud Bloodrider

  Are Dedicated with Honor

  To NDB,

  Captain Dagger,

  Who Cared More for the Lives of the Men Who Served with Him

  Than for His Own Life and Never Left a Man to Die Alone and Forgotten in the Field

  Neil stared at the page for a long moment, then turned to the Table of Contents, a grin spreading across his somber face as he quickly scanned several of the chapters listed. The Hog Slop Polka. Schneickerberger’s Breeches. Thunder Dancer; A Horse with Wings. Where the Last Rose Lingers. Long Winter Nights. Fire-breathers & Steely Beasts at the Gates of Hell. Scattered Butternuts; Or Skittle Alley. Angel of the Storm. “Open Sesame.” Painted Faces and Ghostly Smiles. Double Trouble; Or Smoke against Gray Skies.

  Neil’s smile faded as he read the last few chapter headings, for he remembered that winter when he returned to Travers Hill, and he and Lieutenant Chatham had stood outside the lighted window. And he remembered only too vividly how he and his men had hidden in the cave by the river, where three young cousins, boyhood friends, had hidden after mock battles, suffering nothing more serious than skinned knees and growling stomachs because they’d missed luncheon. And Adam. He would never forget the cousin and friend who had paid the highest price of all. Neil’s gaze lingered on Jolie and Stephen, sitting on the woven pillows of the banco, Jolie holding Adam’s and Blythe’s baby daughter on her lap.

  Neil stared over at Nathan and his family as they sat together on the sofa. His giggling son was sitting on his lap, while his daughter leaned over her mother’s shoulder, laughing as she tickled her brother with a feather. Althea, her golden hair slightly tousled from the horseplay, was smiling indulgently, her brown eyes warm with contentment, and Neil knew that not everything had been lost.

  Nathaniel stared at his son. For a moment they stood eye to eye, and Nathaniel cleared his throat, wanting to say something, but he couldn’t find the words. There would be other days, and he rested his hand momentarily on his son’s shoulder before stepping away to join Gil and Leigh as they stood by the pianoforte, where Camilla sat playing a lovely tune.

  Neil watched his father
for a long moment, seeing him look down into Leigh’s face, then nod, a slight smile flickering briefly across his hard face at something she told him. It wasn’t really surprising, Neil thought, that his father would like Leigh, but sometimes their glances met as if they had an understanding between them, as if they shared some knowledge the rest of them were not privy to. A puzzled expression entered Neil’s pale eyes as he felt again his father’s hand on his shoulder. Was he only imagining it, or was there something different about his father? Neil shook his head, still disbelieving of the gentle expression he’d seen in his father’s eyes. Walking over to the window, Neil stared out at the mountains. As he stood there alone, he heard a step behind him and held out his hand without looking as Leigh came to stand beside him. His hand closed over hers as she reached out to him, her eyes meeting his in a loving, sharing glance.

  His arm came to rest around her waist, holding her against him and she raised her face for his kiss. Their lips touched.

  “Day after tomorrow we’ll ride to Riovado,” Neil murmured softly as Leigh rested her head against his shoulder, her cheek pressed against his heart as she leaned against him, the warmth of her body, shared with his, as necessary to his life as his own breath.

  * * *

  The blackness of a star-streaked sky faded as dawn broke over the purple mountains. The sun rose resplendent, bathing the forested slopes in a golden light and gilding the outspread wings of a high-flying bird as it soared on the winds into the heavens.

  Far below, two riders, a man and a woman, rode beside a stream, the silvered waters glinting through green woodlands. Across a high grassy plateau their horses galloped, toward a lone cabin nestled in a peaceful wood of tall pines. Neil Braedon, his beloved Leigh riding beside him, had come home to Riovado.

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  Wild Bells to the Wild Sky

  She shall be lov’d and fear’d. Her own shall bless her;

  Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn,

  And hang their heads with sorrow. Good grows with her;

  In her days every man shall eat in safety

  Under his own vine what he plants; and sing

  The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours.

  Shakespeare

  “The Queen is dead. God save the Queen, Elizabeth of England!” And with those fateful words, proclaimed on a November morning in 1558, Elizabeth Tudor, daughter of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, succeeded to the throne of England. The death of Elizabeth’s half sister, the childless Mary Tudor, a devout Catholic and daughter of King Harry by his divorced Spanish wife, Catherine of Aragon, brought the Protestant princess, who had been declared a bastard and banished from the court shortly after her birth, the crown of a country that had yet to become the great seafaring nation that was to build a world empire.

  The realm that the young queen inherited was facing bankruptcy, rising inflation, civil and religious unrest, and a heightening of hostility from its powerful Catholic neighbors, France and Spain, who saw England as an uncivilized island of heretics. Ever since Henry VIII had renounced the supremacy of the pope and severed all bonds with the Church of Rome, England had become the revolutionary symbol of the great Reformation sweeping through Europe and, in the eyes of the papacy and its zealous defenders, threatening the very heart of Christendom.

  King Philip II of Spain, fanatic champion of the Catholic Counter-Reformation, ruled an empire that not only dominated the Continent but had conquered the New World. From her colonies in the Americas and Indies, Spain filled her royal coffers with gold and silver, precious stones, and the riches reaped from unrestricted trade with the Far East. By papal decree nearly a century earlier, Pope Alexander VI had established a demarcation line across the seas and lands of the newly explored western world, which forbade crossing by other nations, and allowed Spain and Portugal a monopoly on the wealth of the New World. And enforced by the unchallenged superiority of their well-manned and heavily armed fleets, the Spanish seemed destined for world dominion.

  Across the English Channel, in France, Mary Stuart, daughter of Mary of Guise, a French princess, and of James V of Scotland, and the great-granddaughter of Henry VII—married the Dauphin of France. The marriage presented a grave threat to England and her queen. It united two ancient, Catholic enemies of an ever-growing Protestant England. And Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, and the future queen of France, also claimed the English crown. Under Catholic canon, which had never recognized Henry VIII’s divorce from Catherine of Aragon, Elizabeth Tudor had been born out of wedlock and had no right to wear the crown.

  Raised and educated in the French court, the devoutly Catholic Mary Stuart would find that her heretical English cousin would be a difficult rival to overthrow, and her native Scotland would be an even more difficult land to rule. The Reformation, which until then had been confined to England and the Continent, now took root in Scottish soil. The ancient faith found itself under attack by parish ministers, inspired by the soul-stirring speeches of the Protestant reformer John Knox, repudiating papal edict. And in the highlands and glens of Scotland, rebellious lairds and clan chieftains, aspiring for wealth and power through the dissolution of the monasteries and acquisition of church holdings, actively plotted the overthrow of their Catholic, foreign-bred queen.

  In 1560, Mary Stuart had to meet that challenge, for in December she became a widow and, childless, lost her right to the French throne. In the summer of 1561 she returned to Scotland to rule an impoverished country of lawless subjects. Falling prey to the divisive politics of the time, as well as having ruled with her heart rather than her head, Mary Queen of Scots was dethroned by Protestant nobles only seven years after returning to her homeland. Her reign, which had been beset by murder and intrigue, was over, and fleeing for her life she sought exile in England.

  Elizabeth was faced with a difficult decision. Despite her personal feelings for Mary Stuart, she was a staunch supporter of a hereditary sovereign’s right to rule, and she would never willingly become a party to the shedding of royal blood. However, because England needed an ally on her unprotected northern border, she had secretly supported and aided the rebellion in Scotland. Mary Stuart had abdicated in favor of her infant son, James VI, who was protected by a Protestant regent. England need no longer fear a French-supported invasion from her northern neighbor. Elizabeth wished to preserve that alliance. She could not allow Mary Stuart the freedom to join forces with England’s Catholic enemies on the Continent.

  Queen Elizabeth would not sentence her cousin to death nor give her her freedom. And because Elizabeth Tudor never wed and had no heirs to inherit the crown, the Catholic Mary Stuart was heir-presumptive to the English throne. As long as she lived there would be those who would conspire to place that crown on her head prematurely and see the ancient faith restored to the heretics of that rebellious northern isle ruled by the Protestant usurper. The threat of assassination was an ever-present danger to Elizabeth and to the destiny of her kingdom.

  During the following years of her reign, Elizabeth I sought to maintain peace with her neighbors while she restored order and stability to her realm and began to build a fighting force, especially a naval fleet, far superior to the might of her powerful foes. Elizabeth Tudor was a master in the fine art of diplomacy. Until she felt England could successfully defend her shores, she would not involve her people in a war. War was to be avoided at all costs. Elizabeth knew the end result would be far more devastating to her nation than a mere wrecking of the country’s economy and a draining of the royal treasury. And tax her people to keep her armies fighting in a war on the Continent she would not do, for that would only promote further unrest and rebellion in the land, abetting the Catholic cause.

  She would only engage in warfare to protect her people and defend her land from invasion. It was with reluctance that she all
owed Englishmen to fight on the Continent, and it was with grave reservations that she even sent money and arms to her Protestant allies to aid in their struggle against the armies of Spain and France. Although she wished to keep the Netherlands in Protestant hands, she felt it would be only too easy for the papal-inspired armies of Philip II to cross the Channel and shed blood on English soil.

  Elizabeth I remained stalwartly determined to keep her crown and her loyal Protestant subjects safe from the armies of Spain and the Roman Church’s Holy Inquisition. She would not provoke Philip II’s all-consuming ambition to make England a part of his empire or return her people to the orthodox faith. Despite increasingly strained relations, Elizabeth patiently continued to pursue a nonaggressive course and maintain an outwardly friendly diplomacy with Spain. But, privately, the queen and her council worried, knowing that it would be but a matter of time before the religious fanaticism of Philip II and his belief in a holy crusade of conquest in the New World would involve England in direct conflict with the Spanish crown.

  Spain’s aspirations for a world empire depended on her unchallenged supremacy in the New World. The religious and civil wars that had dominated western Europe throughout the century were bankrupting Spain, whose royal treasury financed the armies of mercenaries hired to suppress rebellion and restore the true faith.

  Mountains of silver and temples of gold, masks studded and sparkling with emeralds and pearls were no longer legend when the conquistadores returned to Spain. Their ships’ holds were filled with incredible riches plundered from a savage New World that existed beyond the western seas. This dazzling wealth raised Spain to its pinnacle of power. King Philip II came to depend on the great treasure fleets sailing home from the Spanish Main, a territory that stretched from Trinidad and the mouth of the Orinoco River at its southernmost point, to Cuba and the Straits of Florida at its northernmost, and encompassing Central America and Mexico to the west and the Bahamas to the east.