Charmian and Timothy were put to work on a handloom amidst the clatter of a dozen such machines. The work was hard for the girl who had been sheltered and protected by her father’s position. Now her father had lost his position and had been hounded out of his own land as a traitor. Already her feet were blistered and sore and now her fingers were chafed and cut by the threads. All about her the noise battered at her ears, the people shouted in a language she could not understand and even Timothy had been dragged away from her and obliged to work in another area. And every hour the church bells rang out, across the town, peal after peal, until Charmian almost dreaded the sound in her ears.
She missed Timothy’s company during the day and at night when they returned to the small room overrun with children there was little time for sharing a few moments’ conversation, a touch of the hands for comfort, for the Dutch housewife demanded yet more work from them: chopping wood, sweeping the one crowded room, minding the children, but when Timothy protested on Charmian’s—Pieter’s—behalf, it only seemed to make the housewife more impatient. By the time they climbed the ladder to the loft together, both Timothy and Charmian were too weary to do anything but fall on to their makeshift bed and sleep and sleep until rough hands shook them awake once more to a day of drudgery.
‘Can we not run away?’ Charmian whispered to Timothy. ‘One night, could we not escape from here and find a boat to take us back to England?’
‘We should never get beyond the town’s gate-keeper, or we should be arrested by the night-guards patrolling the town.’
‘Could we not leave before they come on duty at ten?’
Sadly Timothy shook his head. ‘We should be missed here and they would send word to your father at once—you know they would. I don’t doubt they are being well paid for having us in this—this hovel.’
Tears rolled down Charmian’s cheeks. ‘ But I am so weary. Every bone in my body seems to ache and look at my fingers—they’re raw and bleeding. And it hurts!’ she ended pitifully.
‘I know, I know,’ Timothy tried to comfort her. ‘ Perhaps ’twill not be for very much longer. Perhaps even now your father is arranging for our passage to America where we will be safe.’
The tears only rolled faster. ‘ I—I don’t want to leave England. I want to go back. I fear for my mother, I …’ Unable to voice the terrible anxiety in her heart, Charmian fell silent. Timothy, too, could think of nothing to say, but shyly he put his arm about her shoulders and they sat together in the stale darkness of the room listening to the snorings and mutterings of the other occupants of this awful place.
Perhaps they might have gone on this way for days and weeks with Charmian growing more pale and tired, with dark blue shadows beneath her eyes and her once smooth hands torn and bleeding had something not happened which ended their life amongst the Dutch people with a brutal and frightening suddenness.
Perhaps—if they had been allowed to stay together—it would never have happened. But their enforced separation made Charmian long for Timothy’s company all the more. Throughout the long working day, after Timothy had been taken away to work at a different loom, Charmian was surrounded by strangers, unable to communicate because she knew no word of Dutch and most of the time in trouble because she could not do the work correctly. Every moment she could escape, she crept away to meet Timothy in a corner of the yard behind their place of work. And that was where they were found one afternoon, only two weeks after they had started working, by an irate overseer who had come searching for them after finding their looms standing idle.
When the Dutchman saw them—to his eyes two boys—the one with his head upon the other’s shoulder and the taller one with his arms around the golden-haired boy, the overseer lunged towards them shouting and brandishing his whip. The young pair sprang apart in horror, Timothy turning white as he understood the words the man was shouting at them. The overseer raised his whip and slashed Timothy across the face. Charmian screamed and threw herself against Timothy as if to try to shield him herself, but this only seemed to incense the man even more.
‘No—no,’ Timothy tried to explain. ‘You don’t understand. She’s a girl—not a boy. We are doing nothing wrong.’ But Timothy’s Flemish was not good enough to explain such a complicated matter, though he could understand the filthy names the overseer was calling them both. Two more workers arrived and, listening only to what the overseer had to say, they grabbed hold of Timothy and Charmian and dragged them from the yard, through the workshops and out into the market-square. All the workers left their looms and followed, forming a ring around the accused pair, and as word passed amongst the onlookers, there was a murmuring amongst them which grew in a crescendo until the crowd were shouting and shaking their fists at the two young boys.
‘Brand them. Brand the English dogs!’ came the call, all their hatred of the English for the war not long forgotten bubbling to the surface.
Timothy cried out, ‘No—no, not Charmian!’
But no one would listen. They did not even hear him.
On the corner of the market-square—unseen by the shouting, angry mob—stood a black-cloaked figure, his arms folded, his hat pulled low to conceal his face.
The man watched and waited.
The whole mass of people surged forward, screaming and shouting abuse, and Timothy and Charmian were lifted above their heads and tossed from one to the other, vile hands clawing and scrabbling and pinching. They were carried to one side of the square towards a blacksmith’s where the overseer who had begun it all grabbed one of the irons hanging from the wall and thrust it into the red glowing coals of the blacksmith’s brazier.
‘That one first!’ The overseer shouted pointing his whip at Timothy, whilst strong hands held Charmian captive.
She was forced to watch whilst Timothy’s clothes were torn from his back leaving his skin white and vulnerable. They tied his hands behind his back and forced him to his knees. With relish the overseer pulled the branding iron from the fire and holding it before him, the end red and glowing, he advanced towards the cowering young man.
‘Timothy—no—no—Timothy!’ Charmian’s shrill cry of anguish was heard even above the noise of the mob.
From the shadows the black-cloaked figure emerged, his right hand upon his sword hidden beneath the voluminous cloak. He moved towards the crowd. The branding iron came close to Timothy’s shoulder, hovered and then plunged towards the pale, trembling, unmarked skin.
Timothy’s cry of searing pain and Charmian’s scream rang out together. There was the smell of burning flesh and a roar from the bloodthirsty crowd as the branding iron was removed leaving an ugly, raw scar on the young man’s shoulder.
‘Now this one,’ came the cry as Charmian was dragged forward. She struggled but in vain, finding herself thrown to her knees on the cobbles. Someone removed the jerkin and then took hold of the thin shirt. The man in the cloak shouldered his way through the crowd.
Charmian closed her eyes in shame as the garment was ripped from her with one violent tug. Feeling the cool air on her sweating skin, she trembled a she waited for the branding iron to touch her back. She waited and then, strangely, she became aware of the silence about her. She opened her eyes. The crowd were staring at her, gaping at her smooth skin, her firm young breasts and seeing her now for the first time for the young woman she was, divested of her boyish garb. There was shame now on their faces and a shuffling of feet and a murmuring. The glowing branding iron fell to the cobbles with a clanging sound as the overseer saw his dreadful mistake.
Silent now, the crowd parted to allow the angry man from the shadows to move through them. As he came to the centre, he threw off his broad-brimmed hat and took off his cloak and wrapped it around the shivering, terrified and humiliated girl. Then he picked her up in his arms and carried her back the way he had come without speaking a word to the overseer or to the crowd, or even to Timothy Deane. He carried her towards his horse waiting in the shadows. Tenderly he lifted the girl up and s
prang up behind her.
Only then did Charmian realize just who her rescuer was.
Campbell Denholm.
Chapter Ten
‘How—how did you find me?’
They were at a small inn on the outskirts of Leiden. Charmian was sitting wrapped in a robe in a small bedchamber before a blazing log fire, whilst, at Campbell’s command, the landlord’s wife hurried to find some suitable clothes for her unexpected guest. They were alone in the room. Campbell stood looking down at her. Gently he reached out and touched the shorn locks of her golden hair, the hair he had loved so much.
‘My Princess Golden Hair,’ he murmured. ‘What have those barbarians done to you?’ He spoke not of the Dutch people who had treated her with a rough kindness until this tragic misunderstanding, but of her father who had used his daughter so cruelly. The tenderness in Campbell’s tone threatened to overwhelm Charmian when she recalled what would have happened had he not appeared—so miraculously it seemed to her—at that very moment. Then she asked him, ‘How did you find me? And—and my dear mother, how—how is she?’
‘I have been close by you all the time you have been in Holland. There was a nasty moment when you embarked in Boston. I feared I would not find another boat quickly enough to follow you, for I had no idea then where your father intended to seek refuge. Luckily for me, your father has a great many enemies in Boston now and word came swiftly to my ears that he was bound for Leiden. The rest was easy. My men have gone to arrest your father and the Deanes at this moment though ‘‘arrest’’ is not quite the right term. Kidnap would—perhaps be a more appropriate word.’
The smile, once so readily leaping into his eyes, merely twisted his mouth with wry humour.
‘Campbell—I know you must hate my father and the Deanes and—and I know what you must think of me after—after …’ Her voice died away and she avoided his gaze. Campbell said nothing. ‘But—but I beg you do not be too hard on Timothy Deane. He tried to protect me, he …’
‘He did not succeed very well,’ Campbell said curtly.
‘I know it must look like that to you, but he was led by his brother, just as I was deceived by my father.’ Charmian hung her head and so she did not see the anguish, the jealousy, in Campbell’s eyes as she pleaded for leniency for Timothy Deane.
He moved away from her and said brusquely, ‘ I will see what I can do.’ Then he added more gently and with a hint of sadness in his tone, ‘But firstly, I must take you home as soon as I can. I shall not wait for my men to bring your—the prisoners. I can trust them to carry out my orders. You and I shall travel on horseback by road. The Dutch much prefer travel by canal and by avoiding the canals we may yet escape.’
‘Escape? You mean we are not safe yet?’ she asked in surprise. Campbell’s mouth, once so gentle and smiling, was now so tight and hard. ‘There are no laws of extradition between our countries and the only way for me to retake my prisoners is to spirit them away by night.’
So—she was his prisoner. That was how Campbell thought of her—as the enemy of his King.
As he made to leave the room, she cried, ‘You have not yet told me of my mother.’
He paused, stood very still for a moment and then slowly he turned to face her. ‘She is very ill. She was gravely injured by your father’s horse. She—she lives only to hear news of you.’
Charmian’s face was ashen. ‘You mean she …’ She could not voice the words, but Campbell knew their meaning and silently he nodded.
There was nothing he could say to comfort the girl though he ached to take her into his embrace and hold her close.
As it was, he turned away and left her alone with her grief and remorse.
The horses clattered to a halt in the cobbled courtyard—they were back at Gartree Castle. Campbell dismounted and held up his arms to help Charmian. Stiffly, she slid from her mount into his arms. But as soon as she was standing on the ground Campbell let go of her and moved away, without even looking at her. Charmian, her heart thudding with apprehension of what she was about to find within the castle, nevertheless picked up her skirts and ran towards the door that led into the great hall. From a chair by the fire a figure rose to greet her. With a cry of relief she ran forward. ‘Sir Geoffrey, how is my mother? Please tell me at once.’ She stopped and bit hard upon her lip, all her guilt flooding back at once. ‘Oh—and you are hurt.’ The shame washed over her yet again as she remembered her part in the terrible affair. But Sir Geoffrey was smiling at her, holding out one arm towards her. The other arm was supported in a sling.
‘Only bruised, my dear,’ he said quietly. ‘Are you all right? They have not—harmed you?’
Dumbly Charmian shook her head, then in a low whisper said, ‘Though I should have been badly burned—branded—if it had not been for Campbell. But—my mother?’
She felt the pressure of Sir Geoffrey’s fingers upon her shoulder. ‘My dear, the horses’ hooves came down heavily upon your mother as she lay upon the ground.’ His face was grey with anguish. ‘I am afraid she was—is very badly hurt. I—I cannot but say that she …’
He faltered and Charmian stared up at him, realizing in that brief moment that his heartache was as deep as her own. ‘You mean she is going to—to—die?’
Slowly, sadly, Sir Geoffrey nodded.
Charmian buried her face against his chest and sobbed, ‘It is all my fault!’
‘No, no, my dear child, you must not blame yourself. I shall not let you do so,’ he said soothingly, stroking her short hair gently. ‘You cannot be blamed for trusting your own father.’
Her voice muffled against him, Charmian said, ‘I truly believed that he meant to swear allegiance to His Majesty. It—it was not until we—he so misused my mother, that I began to see how he had deceived me. Oh how cleverly he had deceived me,’ she cried bitterly. ‘ I can never expect forgiveness. Sir Geoffrey, for I can never forgive myself.’
‘We all understand, my dear little one. There is nothing to forgive in your actions. You have been so sheltered and protected—how could you ever recognize such wickedness?’
But Charmian could not herself believe his kindly words. ‘Campbell will never forgive me,’ she murmured unhappily.
Sir Geoffrey sighed and then he put his uninjured arm gently around her shoulders. ‘Come, my dear, I will take you to your mother.’
When she entered the chamber where her mother lay, Charmian was surprised to see Lady Denholm seated beside the bed, holding Elizabeth’s limp hand. Seeing her husband and Charmian, she rose and came towards the girl holding out both her hands to take hers, her voice full of sympathy. ‘My dear girl. May the Lord be praised that you are safe.’
‘How is she?’ Charmian whispered afraid to hear the reply, yet ask she must.
‘My dear. I am so very sorry, but—she has held on to life only to see you again, only to know that you are safe.’
Charmian bit her lips and tiptoed towards the bed. Her mother’s face—still lovely—was deathly pale and her breathing was in short, painful rasps. Charmian gave a low moan and bent her head down to rest her cheek on her mother’s hand. ‘Oh Madam—my dearest mother—what have I done?’
Sir Geoffrey, standing at the opposite side of the bed, leant over. ‘Elizabeth, my dear, Charmian is here. She is quite safe. Campbell found her and brought her home.’
Elizabeth Radley’s eyelashes fluttered and opened and as Charmian raised her head she saw her mother try to smile. ‘My darling Charmian,’ she whispered weakly and Charmian could see that even the effort to speak caused her great pain.
‘No, Mother, don’t try to speak. You must rest …’
‘No, no, I must tell you, my love. You must not marry Joshua. Geoffrey—’ she winced as she turned her head.
‘I am here, my dear,’ he said, gently taking her white, cold hand in his. All the while, Lady Denholm stood quietly at the end of the bed.
‘Geoffrey,’ Elizabeth whispered. ‘Don’t let Mary make her marry Joshua. Promise me!�
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‘I promise, Elizabeth. We will cherish Charmian as our own daughter.’
‘You are so—good. And so is Georgina,’ Elizabeth whispered. ‘She is a wonderful woman to be so—so understanding. She has been so kind to me.’
Sir Geoffrey beckoned his wife closer and she too leant towards Elizabeth and spoke softly. ‘We shall ensure Charmian’s happiness, my dear Elizabeth. And keep her safe from those who would do her harm.’
‘Charmian,’ her mother whispered. ‘Charmian—if he should ask you, you should marry Campbell. Remember—it is my wish that you should marry—Campbell. He—loves—you—so. Do you promise me, my dear daughter?’
‘Oh, Madam.’ The tears flowed down Charmian’s cheeks, for she could not explain to her dying mother how Campbell, far from loving her, now despised her for what she had done. All she could whisper were the words, ‘ I promise.’
With that reassurance, Elizabeth Radley seemed to let go of her hold on life and quite quickly she slipped into unconsciousness from which she was never to recover.
For the next few days until well after her mother had been buried, Charmian stayed in her room, weeping inconsolably. In the afternoon of the second day after the burial, Lady Denholm came to sit with her.
‘Now, my dear, your mother would not have wanted you to grieve for her for too long. I know how sad and lonely you must feel. Your mother gone and your father—well—we are not quite sure what is to happen to him yet. But we want to take you home with us. Sir Geoffrey and I—and Campbell—want to take care of you as we promised your mother.’
There was a silence between them for some moments and then Charmian could no longer hold back the question that had, for so long, been in her mind. ‘I—I do not understand you,’ the words came tumbling out before she could stop them. You seem to bear my mother no ill-will, in fact, you have been most kind to her, and to me. And yet she—your husband—I mean …’ she faltered, realizing at that last moment that she was trying to put into words matters which were perhaps better left unsaid.
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