A blushing Daniel Defoe said, ‘I am most grateful to you, Your Grace. But as yet I have no experience as a soldier. All I ask is that Your Grace allows me to trail a musket for you.’
‘Indeed you shall,’ Monmouth clapped Defoe on the shoulder. With a smile at McFeeley then, the duke said, ‘And you, sir, I sense that you have seen service on the battlefields of the world?’
‘I have, Your Grace.’
‘Just as I thought from the set of you. And your name, my friend?’
‘I am Colm McFeeley, Your Grace.’
Placing his outstretched right hand on McFeeley’s shoulder, the duke asked, ‘You are truly a man’s man. Will you join me?’
McFeeley’s mind was in turmoil. What was happening now was what Lord Churchill and Captain Critchell had planned, and it was McFeeley’s duty to accept. But having learned what the king’s army had done to Fraser, and out of admiration for the Duke of Monmouth, McFeeley was uncertain of his reason for accepting Monmouth’s offer. Feeling that no half decision would suffice, McFeeley was pushed into it by the impatiently waiting duke who stood drawing his sword in front of his unfurled banner of Leveller Green inscribed in letters of gold, ‘Fear nothing but God’.
‘I will be both honoured and proud to serve you, sir,’ McFeeley dropped to one knee, the tip of Monmouth’s sword touching him lightly on each shoulder.
The conviction that he was a traitor gripped McFeeley with a sickening intensity. It was a malady made acute by having no focus. He felt that he was letting down the duke he now knelt in front of; and King James II, Lord Churchill, Captain Critchell and even his treasured memory of Rosin.
‘You will ride at my side, Colm McFeeley,’ Monmouth told him as he regained his feet. ‘Now, allow me to introduce my commander of horse Lord Grey of Werke.’
Taking the hand of the man who had run from him at Bridport, a relieved McFeeley saw no recognition in the pale eyes, only an inherent weakness. Then the cool hand of the stirring woman was in his as Monmouth introduced her.
‘May I present Lady Henrietta, Lord Grey’s wife.’
There was no fear but a lot of fire in her dark eyes. As if by the use of some kind of witchcraft, she was looking inside of McFeeley, seeing much of his past life, seemingly reading the details of every carnal relationship he’d ever had. It was a peculiar experience for him.
‘You would seem to be the man of the moment, Colm McFeeley,’ she smiled brilliantly.
Noticing that Lord Grey had given his attention to a young man who was bringing up a string of some thirty horses, while very aware that the duke was watching him and Henrietta, McFeeley retained her hand as he said, ‘To my regret, Lady Henrietta, I have let many important moments slip past me.’
‘Then I will make it my mission to see that you don’t miss any in the future,’ she said softly.
‘This is John Speke, McFeeley.’ Monmouth gestured towards the man who had come up with the horses. ‘John is one of my most active supporters, as you will see from this fine collection of mounts he has brought me. Tonight we will wine and dine at the home of George Speke, John’s father, at White Lackington. There will be a ball, the lull before the storm, as it were. A man fights all the better for having the scent of a woman in his nostrils. We’ll have to provide you with a uniform, my friend. Your yokel dress will deter the ladies at the dance. Have you come far to join me?’
‘A long way,’ McFeeley replied, deliberately keeping it vague.
‘I thank God that you arrived in time,’ Monmouth said with a fervency that had McFeeley covertly study him, but McFeeley was certain he had just detected an abject shrinking away from thoughts of his own death. As a veteran, McFeeley knew that a soldier over-concerned with his own safety was a liability. What he had glimpsed in the duke could signify that in a crisis he might well be a disaster as a leader.
‘An attempt was made on my life while we were at Lyme, McFeeley,’ he explained now, possibly suspecting what McFeeley had witnessed in him, and trying to excuse it.
A horse was brought up for him to ride at Monmouth’s side, and they moved off at the head of a long convoy of horsemen, carriages, and foot soldiers. McFeeley thought it likely that Lord Churchill’s wife and companion would be at White Lackington. He was uncertain as to whether or not he wanted to carry out his mission. Apart from Lord Grey of Werke, who McFeeley could not even be civil to, he liked the rebel duke and his officers. It occurred to McFeeley that he was more influenced than he realized by the double-dealing of his superiors that had led him to kill Captain Fraser.
Recognizing that he was soon to be forced into making the most dramatic and traumatic decision of his life, he had no idea what that decision would be. A man of honour, McFeeley hadn’t lost sight of the allegiance he had sworn to the king, but he felt that the deception played on him regarding Fraser cancelled out his oath to King James II and his predecessors.
Lady Henrietta rode with her maid in a coach close behind Monmouth, Grey and McFeeley. The lovely woman’s aura was such that it easily crossed the distance between them to tantalize McFeeley. What should have been an enjoyable sensation for him was torture. Each time McFeeley conjured up an image of Henrietta, the dark, meaningful eyes and the mouth that was provocative whether smiling or pouting, it was immediately replaced by the face of Captain Fraser in death.
‘The men behind us, McFeeley,’ the duke remarked, his movements the easy rhythm of an accomplished horseman, ‘they have risen up to support me. I thank the Lord for them, but it is the tenant farmers and their workers at our rear who gladden my heart, for they would not dare follow me without the consent of their landlords. The greater part of the country is behind me, my friend.’
‘It is rumoured,’ Lord Grey addressed McFeeley directly for the first time, ‘that there are many serving with the militia who are ready to change sides.’
This alerted McFeeley, who took a sideways glance at Grey. He wondered if this was just a chance remark or whether Grey suspected that he was a king’s man. It might even be that Grey, whose cunning was compensation for low intelligence, recognized him from Bridport.
‘All who want to join me will be welcomed,’ Monmouth said.
‘We must determine not to welcome turncoats, Your Grace,’ Grey warned.
A distraught Lady Sarah Churchill was in no doubt that John Trenchard had misconstrued her inaction for acquiescence. She regretted earlier allowing him to take a liberty during a dance. Yet although she blamed herself she could not find much in mitigation. The manor at White Lackington had been in a state of high excitement since early evening when Monmouth’s army, a column more than three miles long, had been seen approaching. With the soldiers camping nearby, the rebel duke and his officers had been rapturously welcomed. In all the commotion Sarah had become disoriented. She was all alone, while Rachel, still besotted with Edmund Prideaux, clung to him for support.
James, Duke of Monmouth had made a short speech before dinner, which gained him much acclaim. John Trenchard had sat at Sarah’s side at the table. His wife, who showed no feelings for and little interest in her husband, was spending her time fussing round her elderly father. At the table Sarah had forced herself to broach the subject that was all important to her.
‘Will I be gone from here before this night is over?’ she had inquired of John Trenchard.
He had replied quietly and a little tetchily. ‘All in good time, Lady Sarah, all in good time.’
This wasn’t either a promising or an encouraging reply, and Sarah was glad of the diversion provided by Monmouth’s presence. Sitting alone in the camp of the enemy, she remembered the duke was a dynamic man with looks and a style that were captivating.
She reminded herself that she was on enemy territory. There was no protector to make her feel secure. All she had was a tenuous possibility of being saved by Trenchard, together with a growing unease brought on by the way the officer sitting at Monmouth’s side was studying her.
Fair-haired and ruggedly h
andsome, the man had a toughness about him that suggested he would be more at home roaming the woods than sitting stiffly at a banquet table. It was the officer’s uniform he wore which linked up with some inner quality to impart a poise and dignity that many of the more sophisticated and more educated men at the table lacked.
Made embarrassed by his interest in her, she almost welcomed Trenchard’s invitation to dance. Yet the stranger’s eyes had found her again on the floor. He was dancing with a gorgeous woman who, elegantly dressed and with her hair piled stylishly high, had ridden in as part of the rebel duke’s entourage. As this couple had passed Sarah and Trenchard in the dance, the man looked so deeply at her that she had given an involuntary shiver startled her partner.
‘Are you cold, Lady Sarah?’ Trenchard had asked.
‘No, it’s just …’ Sarah had begun but couldn’t finish. Even she didn’t know what it was about the Monmouth officer that had caused this extreme reaction in her.
Sarah knew that it wasn’t fear. She regarded it more like meeting someone you were close to in the past and hadn’t seen for ages. It was that kind of a jolt, and Sarah Churchill found herself entertaining the absurd thought that she remembered the officer from the future.
It was during this unusual and abstract deliberation that Trenchard had steered her right to the edge of the floor where the heavy shadows were deepened by the dark purple drapes hanging at a huge window. Pausing in the dance, Trenchard had placed the tip of a forefinger mid-way between her chin and lower lip. By applying gentle pressure he opened her mouth, kissing the inside of it in a profoundly sexual way.
Taken by surprise, Sarah had made the mistake of not resisting. Making no response, her body had remained rigid. An absence of protest on her part had convinced John Trenchard that she welcomed his attentions. A short while later, as they had stood side by side at the rear of the assembly of guests listening to various Whig dignitaries paying tribute to Monmouth, Trenchard had furtively dropped his right hand behind them to fondle her buttocks. So tightly were they packed among the other guests that Sarah could not have made an avoiding move without causing a disturbance.
This second incident had further encouraged and excited Trenchard, while making it clear to her that she was in a dire situation. He later leaned close to Sarah, his voice hoarse, to say, ‘I will not keep you waiting long before coming to your room tonight, Lady Sarah.’
Soon afterwards Sarah’s heart leapt as she saw the fair-haired Monmouth soldier heading her way across the floor. Confident that he was about to ask her to dance, she had to fight back an agonized cry of disappointment as she saw the woman who had come with Monmouth take a course across the ballroom floor that would have her intercept the officer before he could reach Sarah. To Sarah’s chagrin that was exactly what happened. In the path of the fair-haired officer, the woman said something to him. Though he listened intently, his eyes remained on Sarah and she found herself willing him to continue in her direction. The woman placed her hands on the officer’s shoulders and the two of them moved away in a dance.
‘I had been waiting for that since the moment I first saw you at Chard,’ Lady Henrietta said as they came back into the manor.
The change from the night air to the heavy atmosphere inside the manor brought an alteration to McFeeley. Henrietta had an air of danger about her. Aware of it from the start, McFeeley had pushed it to one side after they had danced. Now the warning had returned with a vengeance, and he rued having surrendered to his ever-demanding base urges. A remark made by John Speke had confirmed McFeeley’s suspicion that Lady Henrietta was Grey’s wife but Monmouth’s mistress.
‘And you, McFeeley,’ she asked, brushing down her clothes, her hand movements jerky at his lack of response to her statement. ‘Had you been waiting as long as me?’
‘Longer,’ he assured her, ‘All of my life, Henrietta.’
This pleased her and she smiled but he could detect an underlying misgiving in her that he was insincere, simply flattering her.
But that evening of divided loyalties had become further complicated by an inexplicable, invisible connection between him and a beautiful woman who, nevertheless, was a total stranger. It took a discreet inquiry of host George Speke to learn that she was none other than the woman he had been sent out to save – Lady Sarah Churchill.
Back in the hall, McFeeley was struck by the forced gaiety of the assembly. It was plain to him that fear of the morrow had everyone desperate to enjoy today. Without a word, Henrietta, who had moments ago been in the throes of a passion that could well have hovered on the borders of insanity, left him as if they had been casual acquaintances, exchanging no more than a few polite words. Plainly fearing that her short absence from the rebel duke’s side may have weakened her position, she eased back into the group surrounding him, getting close, her eyes adoring and her mouth inviting.
Scanning the huge room, McFeeley saw Lady Sarah Churchill, her lovely face serious as she carried on a conversation with an attractive woman he took to be her companion. The man who had been her constant escort that evening was not on the scene right then.
McFeeley moved through the crowd heading for Lady Sarah Churchill. Although she had her back to him and there was no way that she could have seen McFeeley coming toward her, she spun round, startled when he was within a few yards of where she stood. Their eyes met, and he could tell that she was willing herself to turn away. Failing, she lowered her gaze, her lovely face reddening as he reached her.
Lieutenant Francis Tonge strode through the camp. As immaculately turned out as ever, he was a credit to Lord Oxford’s Horse in particular and the army in general. Young and handsome, although a constantly stern expression had carved too many lines, too soon into his face, he had every reason to be confident, and yet his stride shortened as his pace was slowed by an attack of nerves as he neared the tent of Lord John Churchill. Lieutenant Tonge had been summoned and had obeyed at once, leaving himself no time to even hazard a guess as to why the brigadier wanted to see him. Saluting as he entered, he stepped into a tent in which Churchill occupied the only chair, which was positioned behind a table, a captain standing beside him. With his new rank of sergeant, Jack stood to one side with the bearing of a soldier but with much of his straight-back pride diminished by his awe of being in such high-ranked company.
‘Good of you to come so swiftly, Lieutenant,’ Churchill said. ‘This is Captain Critchell, who will issue you with your orders. Your regimental commander speaks most highly of you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Tonge replied. Never having previously seen Lord Churchill, hearsay had led him to expect to find a man walking easily through life along the path of privilege and wealth. But the brigadier, though only a few years Tonge’s senior, looked very tired and haggard. Tonge had seen officers in a better state than him after being engaged in protracted battles, whereas Churchill yet had to sniff the acrid smoke from a Monmouth musket.
‘I understand that you have seen action against the Turks, Lieutenant,’ Churchill said, looking directly at the officer in front of him. This was the first time he had raised his head.
‘I was with the Polish army, sir.’
‘That should stand you in good stead here, Lieutenant, as you will be taking out a party of men on a very important, but dangerous, exercise,’ Churchill told the young officer, then looked up at Critchell. ‘Be so good as to detail the situation to Lieutenant Tonge, Captain.’
‘First things first, Lieutenant,’ Captain Critchell began with a touch of levity, ‘I should remind you that you are now back in the British army.’
‘I have learned that the bullets of any army do not respect uniforms, sir.’
‘Quite, quite, Lieutenant. Now, let me introduce you to Sergeant Jack,’ Critchell said. ‘He will be going with you.’
‘With respect, sir, I have a sergeant of my own who has served with me for several months. This is in no way a comment on the sergeant here present, sir,’ Tonge explained.
&nbs
p; ‘Of course not, Lieutenant. I appreciate that you are looking at what you see best from a standpoint of military expediency. When I explain the situation you will understand why it is our sergeant who will serve as your second-in-command,’ Critchell replied. ‘What I tell you now is strictly secret. We have a lieutenant out there somewhere whose brief is to rescue two ladies that are believed to be held captive by Monmouth activists. That lieutenant and Sergeant Jack have successfully completed several hazardous missions together, Lieutenant. Jack knows how our man thinks, and that is most important in this kind of work.’
‘The lieutenant is overdue, sir?’ Tonge inquired.
Critchell replied. ‘That question is impossible to answer, Lieutenant Tonge.’
There was anxiety inside this tent that was so intense Tonge could imagine a silent scream bouncing off the canvas walls. The mixed race sergeant looked capable enough, but he also had the sort of untamed look that Tonge was used to seeing in the British army’s punishment blocks. This was taking on the appearance of a suicide mission. In previous times this wouldn’t have worried Tonge. But he had been married just three weeks, and his bride, Nancy, was in camp with him. Tonge wondered if Churchill and Critchell knew of his recent marital situation when they had chosen him. Then he dismissed his curiosity as being ludicrous. Neither the brigadier nor his pet captain would give a damn about a subordinate’s personal life.
‘We don’t know where the ladies in question are being held,’ Critchell resumed. ‘We have no idea where our lieutenant might be at this time, and neither do we know exactly where Monmouth and his main force are. All that you will have to go on when you take your party out are assumptions, Lieutenant.’
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