Throughout the country from the nobility to the peasant farmer, men began to plan for the return of their King. Some brave souls threw off the mantle of Puritanism which they had been obliged to wear to ensure the safety of their families, put on their finery once more and grew their hair long, openly defying the strict Puritan laws.
Joseph Radley had been absent from home for over a year. Elizabeth and her daughter were taking a walk in the grounds surrounding their home—wrapped in warm cloaks against the sharp winter day—when they saw three horsemen riding through the gates and galloping towards the house.
‘ ’Tis your father,’ Elizabeth said and immediately the look of fear which for the past months had been absent was back in her eyes.
‘Come, Madam, pray do not be alarmed,’ Charmian said determinedly and she put her arm through her mother’s.
‘We—we had better go and greet him, I suppose,’ Elizabeth said and together they walked towards the house.
The stable-lads were already leading away the three steaming horses.
‘They’ve been ridden mightily hard,’ Charmian murmured, raising her eyebrows in surprise. Despite her father’s harshness towards his family and servants, she had never before known him to misuse an animal.
Charmian and her mother entered the hall to see Joseph Radley pacing up and down, already shouting at his servants once more. The two men with him—strangers to Charmian—were standing near the huge fireplace holding out their hands towards the blazing logs.
‘Ah, there you are, Wife,’ Joseph said and Elizabeth went forward dutifully to greet her husband.
‘We must leave for my sister’s home. Our daughter’s marriage must take place at once.’
Charmian felt as if an icy hand had closed around her heart and, for a moment, stilled its beating.
Joseph Radley flung his hands apart wildly. ‘We must go there. We shall be safe there. Their home is like a fortress.’
‘Safe? Joseph, why should we not be safe here, in our own home?’
Her husband stopped his restless pacing, but still breathing heavily, he said, ‘The Royalists are in power again, at least, almost.’ He glanced towards his two companions. ‘Since Cromwell’s death we have been on a downward spiral and now, General Monk, commanding the Scottish Army, has marched into London. The Rump Parliament tried to minimize his popularity by ordering that he should quell the rebels who have refused to pay taxes—’ Again Joseph Radley resumed his pacing. ‘But what did he do? He turned the tables on Parliament by forcing restoration of the full Parliament and in so doing brought about a Presbyterian majority! They mean to bring back Charles the Second, and Cromwell’s men, those of us who are not turncoats—’ his lip curled,—‘ are fleeing for our lives.’ He gripped his wife’s arm until she winced. ‘But we are not done yet. There’s still a chance. If we can but find a safe place and reorganize …’
A bark of wry laughter came from the taller of the two men standing near the fireplace. ‘ You’re living in a fool’s paradise, Radley. We are done—finished!’
‘Never!’ Joseph Radley bellowed, but the man merely stepped forward and bowed towards Elizabeth.
‘Allow me to introduce myself, ma’am. My name is William Deane and this is my brother, Timothy.’
Elizabeth Radley acknowledged their presence, but quickly turned her attention back to her husband. ‘Must we go? Surely to travel across open countryside would be far more dangerous than …’
William Deane turned away, leaving husband and wife to decide their future. His eyes fell upon Charmian waiting quietly in the background. ‘Ah, you must be the charming Charmian.’ He smiled, as if he had said something exceedingly witty. ‘Your father has spoken of you, Miss Radley, but he omitted to mention your loveliness. I shall indeed take him to task upon the matter.’
He speaks with the smoothness of a snake, Charmian thought. Although she had met very few men in her young and sheltered life, she had an intuitive common sense which helped her to distinguish idle flattery from a sincere compliment.
William Deane was tall and thin with a dissolute look about him. His eyes were set too close together, his cheeks hollowed and his mouth small and mean.
‘Allow me to introduce my brother, Timothy.’ William Deane extended his arm and his brother almost leapt forward from his place by the fire.
‘H-happy to make your acquaintance, M-miss Radley,’ he stammered and Charmian was surprised to see him blush.
Timothy was very different. He was obviously much younger than William and was fair-skinned with a boyish face, blue eyes and a shy, hesitant manner. Charmian could see that he had little will of his own but merely followed the dictates of his brother.
‘ ’Tis settled then. We leave tomorrow,’ Joseph Radley was saying.
William Deane turned. ‘Tomorrow may be too late, Radley. They will be hot on our heels, I fear.’ He laughed drily. ‘I cannot imagine the Royalists allowing a general of Cromwell’s Army, and one of the regicides to escape!’
Charmian watched her father closely. She had never seen him show fear and now, it seemed, his own life was in danger in the same way that during these last eleven years he had endangered many others—Royalist lives. She was interested—strangely dispassionately so—to see if he was afraid.
But his reaction was typical of the man. He became angry, the purple vein standing out vividly in his temple.
‘Very well—we’ll leave today.’
‘But,’ Elizabeth said haltingly, ‘we must take a few things with us …’
‘Just bring a few clothes—nothing else,’ he rounded on her angrily. ‘Do you want to see your husband butchered before your eyes? And your daughter—God knows what they would do to her!’
Elizabeth turned pale and gave a little cry of terror. ‘Oh no, no, they wouldn’t!’
‘You think your Royalist friends will save you?’ he sneered, never able to forget or forgive. ‘ I should not count upon it, my dear.’
They left within the hour. A coach and driver conveying Charmian and her mother and their maid, and the three men on horseback, leaving the rest of their servants to follow later.
During the journey across the flat Lincolnshire fenland from Boston to the comparative safety of Gartree Castle, they were in constant fear of being accosted by fervent Royalists, to say nothing of footpads who always roamed the lonely tracks. Recent heavy rains had left the highway a quagmire in places, so that their progress was slow and ponderous. At one point the coach stopped altogether and the ladies within felt the vehicle tip slowly to one side as one wheel sank into the mud.
You will have to get out—all of you, whilst we get it moving again.’ Radley’s face appeared at the door.
They clambered down into the muddy road.
‘Ugh, the hem of my dress is all wet,’ Charmian muttered in disgust, ‘and the water has seeped through to my feet.’
‘Then you should have worn something more sensible,’ her father snapped.
‘There was hardly time to think what to wear, let alone to put it on,’ retorted Charmian angrily.
‘How dare you answer me like that, Daughter, have a care or …’
‘We are wasting time,’ William Deane shouted through the rain. He was already trying to lever the coach out of the mud.
‘Miss Radley,’ Timothy Deane spoke shyly at her side. ‘If—if you feel cold, I’d be happy to lend you m-my cloak.’
Charmian turned. ‘Thank you, but I am sure you will need it on horseback more than I do seated in the coach. Besides …’
‘Timothy, come and help, will you?’ his brother shouted.
‘Yes. I’m c-coming. I’m sorry, Miss Radley. I m-must go,’ he apologized, backing away and almost tripping over his own feet.
Charmian felt the laughter bubbling up inside her. Timothy Deane was so shy and awkward and yet it would be cruel of her to ridicule him. It would be like whipping an affectionate puppy whose only desire was to please.
It took over an ho
ur of struggling to free the coach, by which time tempers were frayed, the gentlemen and coachman splattered with mud, and the three women shivering with cold.
‘Get in!’ Radley bellowed. ‘Let’s be on our way.’
Three times the coach became stuck. Three times the ladies and their maid were obliged to wait in the cold whilst the men pushed and heaved to release it.
‘There’s a fog coming down now, as if we had not enough to contend with,’ Radley muttered.
‘Perhaps the fog will be to our advantage,’ Charmian heard William Deane remark as she climbed back into the coach. ‘ It will give us cover.’
‘Ay, you could be right,’ her father replied.
‘Thank you, Mr Deane,’ Charmian smiled at Timothy who had given his hand to the ladies to help them re-enter the coach yet again.
Timothy Deane mounted his horse and as they moved off once more Charmian noticed that he rode close beside the coach nearest to the side where she was seated.
The swirling fog became thicker as they neared Gartree Castle. They passed through the village and began to climb the hill towards the Masons’ home. There was an eerie silence about the place. The village had seemed deserted—too quiet almost—and now as they approached the mist-shrouded castle they could neither see nor hear any sign of life. No one came out from the guardhouse to impede their progress across the drawbridge and into the courtyard. The coach rattled on over the cobbled yard, echoing strangely as it drew closer to the castle rising out of the mist. Behind the vehicle clattered the horsemen, thankful that the unpleasant journey was over. They came to a halt in front of the doors leading into the castle and as they did so, Charmian heard the grinding of the machinery as the drawbridge was raised behind them. Peering out of the coach she saw, with a stab of fear, that two men had positioned themselves inside the bridge—two men with long, flowing hair, tall feathers in their hats and with their swords drawn.
They were King’s men.
Chapter Four
At once Joseph Radley began to roar. ‘ What is the meaning of this? What …!’
Immediately, on every side of the courtyard stepped more soldiers, Royalists all, their swords drawn.
Charmian alighted from the coach and then assisted her mother. The gentlemen—her father and William and Timothy Deane—had dismounted and now each of them drew his sword. Timothy edged nearer to Charmian and stood protectively in front of her.
‘There will be no need for bloodshed, Radley.’ A deep voice boomed across the courtyard and Charmian turned to see two men standing at the doorway into the castle. She heard her mother’s startled cry, saw her clasp her hand to her mouth and heard her frightened whisper. ‘Geoffrey!’
Charmian looked again towards the two Royalists and memory stirred. Then, as her father shouted his defensive reply, Charmian knew who they were.
‘I’ll not surrender, Denholm. Never!’
‘Sir Geoffrey Denholm,’ Charmian murmured and her eyes went beyond him to the young man standing a pace behind him. ‘And—and Campbell!’
The years had noticeably altered the Royalist father and son. Campbell had grown to full manhood. He was as tall and as broad as his father now, with a young man’s lithe strength. His hair—his own she did not doubt—curled to his shoulders and he had grown a moustache and beard, the fashionable trait of the King’s men. As she drew closer, Charmian caught a glimpse of a jagged scar down Campbell’s right cheek, only partially hidden by his beard and long hair. But the greatest change seemed to be in his father. Sir Geoffrey had aged far more than the intervening years should have allowed. His hair, shorter than his son’s, was thin and very grey. His once erect, broad frame seemed to stoop slightly and his right arm hung loosely, uselessly, it seemed, by his side, his hand covered by a glove. He held a sword, but in his left hand merely as a token. His voice, however, was still as strong and sure as Charmian remembered, as the memories of that first meeting came flooding back now that once more she stood before Sir Geoffrey and his son, Campbell Denholm.
‘Put up your sword, Radley,’ Sir Geoffrey was saying. ‘We mean you and your family no harm …’
‘Ha! My family—maybe not! But do you expect me to believe that the same good intention applies to me?’
Sir Geoffrey gave an exaggerated sigh, as if he were heartily tired of the whole business. ‘Since you are determined to play the martyr, Radley …’ He raised his voice and motioned to his own men. ‘Take the men, but do not harm the ladies.’
From the comparative calm, the scene changed in a second to a courtyard of running men, of clashing swords and terrified shrieks from Elizabeth and her maid. Charmian, too stunned by the suddenness of it all to speak, merely stood watching. Then she felt strong arms about her and felt herself lifted bodily from the ground and carried into the castle.
She began to struggle. ‘Put me down—leave me, I say. How dare you?’
Close beside her ear she heard his low chuckle and twisted her head round to find herself looking into the blue eyes of Campbell Denholm.
‘If it is not my Princes Golden Hair grown up.’
He set her down upon her feet but he did not release her. Instead he held her by the shoulders at arm’s length and leisurely surveyed her from head to toe. Charmian felt her cheeks grow hot under his bold scrutiny.
‘Unhand me, sir. You forget …’ she began angrily, but her hasty words were silenced by his mouth upon hers. She gasped as he drew her into his embrace, tilted back her head and kissed her. She felt herself respond, warmed by his strong arms, amazed at the sweet sensation which coursed through her whole being. It was the first time any man had kissed her full upon the mouth in this ardent manner and she was taken by surprise and disturbed by the tumult of her own untried emotions.
At last Campbell drew back but still held her in his arms, his face close to hers, his eyes boring deep into hers.
‘How—how dare you?’ But now her voice trembled and lacked conviction.
Campbell laughed at her anger. Offended, she struggled free from his embrace and stood facing him, her eyes flashing, her demure bonnet knocked awry and allowing her golden hair to cascade to her shoulders.
Campbell’s eyes hardened. ‘You are my prisoner, Charmian.’
‘You have no right to call me by my given name. You …’
‘You forget,’ he smiled mockingly. ‘We are old friends.’
‘Friends? How can we be friends? We are enemies!’ she told him fiercely but the thought brought her no satisfaction. His eyes glittered dangerously.
‘I see you have not grown up after all. You are a spoilt child in a woman’s body,’ he told her tauntingly. ‘Well, I shall not be at your beck and call this time.’
‘Oh!’ Charmian cried furiously, but she could find no words to answer his insult.
At that moment the huge doors swung open and Charmian turned to see her father and the two Deane brothers brought into the great hall—prisoners of the King’s men. Of her mother and Sir Geoffrey, there was no sign.
‘Take them to the dungeons,’ Campbell said curtly, and Charmian gasped.
‘The dungeons? You mean to keep them down there?’
‘I have told you,’ Campbell faced her. ‘They are our prisoners.’
‘And what, pray, is to happen to me?’ she asked boldly and with a rash sarcasm in her tone. ‘Am I to be committed to the dungeons too?’
‘Possibly, if you do not behave properly.’
Charmian stamped her foot but the action only produced a squelching sound and reminded her of her own discomfort.
‘It seems,’ Campbell remarked mockingly, eyeing the mud-stained hem of her skirt and cloak, ‘ that you would do well to change your clothing and bathe. Wentworth,’ he called to one of his men, ‘show Miss Radley to a bedchamber and see that a maid attends her.’ Turning back to Charmian, he asked, ‘ Where is your mother?’
‘How should I know,’ Charmian snapped crossly. ‘I expect Sir Geoffrey has carried her off somewhere.�
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‘Ha! I shouldn’t be at all surprised!’ Campbell murmured, and he laughed again, feeding the flame of her anger.
‘Where is my aunt and uncle—and Joshua? Are they all in the dungeons already?’
‘No. The whole castle is under guard and anyone who will give us their promise that they will not attempt to escape may move freely about the building and part of the grounds too, if they wish. But your father does not seem eager to comply.’ Now Campbell’s voice was laced with sarcasm.
‘Perhaps,’ Charmian told him haughtily. ‘I shall not succumb either.’ And with that she turned from him and swept away in what she hoped was a dignified manner.
In the seclusion of the bedchamber, Charmian began to take off her wet clothing but she was still smarting from what she considered to be Campbell’s insolent behaviour. How different was the reality to her memory of him.
‘I do not know why you are taking all this so calmly,’ she said to her mother when Elizabeth Radley entered the room some time later. ‘Don’t you realize, we are prisoners of Royalists? Goodness knows what will become of us. Ugh!’ She wrinkled her nose as she drew off her sodden pattens and hose. ‘Nell, go and find some hot water at once. This mud is caked on my feet,’ Charmian added.
‘Hot water, miss. I doubt there will be hot water in this household, but I’ll see what I can do.’
As the girl closed the door behind her, Elizabeth turned towards her daughter. ‘ No harm will come to any of us, my dear. We are fortunate that it is Sir Geoffrey Denholm here, and not some other Royalist.’ A small, wistful smile played at the corners of her mouth.
Charmian opened her lips to make a sharp retort, but closed them again without uttering a word. She is glad he is here, Charmian thought with a sudden shock. Glad that they were all Sir Geoffrey’s prisoners.
Later when they descended to the great hall once more, having bathed away the mud and changed into clean, dry garments, Charmian began to see that perhaps her mother had good reason to be thankful that their captor was Sir Geoffrey.
Beloved Enemy Page 4