‘Pick it up. Pick it up!’ he yelled, pointing to the cart. Meanwhile a member of the Manchester Regiment, Matthew Somerset, was hauling the lustful soldier off the shivering body of the nearly naked woman in the ditch. There were one or two women with children but the rest were old, old men and old women. They looked like gypsies. He turned to one younger woman who stared at him, sheltering a bundle in her arms. As he approached her she shrank back and clutched the tiny body more tightly to her.
‘Where are all your young men?’ Brent asked her.
‘Dead sir. Killed by the soldiers.’
Brent closed his eyes in an involuntary spasm of nausea. ‘What ... what soldiers?’
The woman pointed around her.
‘Dressed like these; the Scots. They came to our camp the evening before last just after dusk and pillaged, raped and plundered before setting the whole place alight. We only escaped because we were on the edge of the camp. We did not wait.’
Brent leaned over to look at the bundle in her arms. He drew back the ragged blanket which covered it and looked kindly at the woman.
‘Don’t be frightened. I’ll not harm you.’
‘The baby is ill sir. I fear she will not last the day. She has the fever and it is no way to travel without warmth, or food in this weather.’
Brent found he was staring at a beautiful fair-skinned baby with golden hair, so unlike the dark gypsy who held it in her arms. The baby’s eyes were shut, and her pale face shook with fever.
‘You have not stolen this child have you?’ Brent said glancing suspiciously at the woman.
‘Oh no, sir. Saved her. Her mother is fled and her father dead – killed by your soldiers.’
‘She doesn’t look like a gypsy baby.’
Reyora looked at the tall fair soldier with the kindly face who was staring down at the baby. The father would have been someone just like this gadjo. Reyora wondered where Analee was now; how she had fared.
‘The mother was one of our gypsies, sir. The father ...’ Reyora gestured expressively, ‘I am not sure.’
Brent felt the stirrings of some peculiar and unexpected emotion inside him as he looked at the baby. A tenderness for the poor little outcast in a harsh world; what chance did she have? Abandoned by father and mother.
‘She is a very beautiful baby.’
‘Oh she is, my lord. And a lovely nature.’
‘Look,’ Brent said impulsively. ‘My home is not far distant. Have naught to do with my brother Sir George Delamain, but my mother is a compassionate woman. Tell her you met me and I sent my love and asked her to give you shelter until the baby is well.’
‘Oh but sir, I am with the remnant of my tribe ...’ Reyora glanced about her and saw how, standing in a pathetic group, their eyes appealed to her.
‘My mother could not give hospitality to all even if she wanted to. But for the baby ... ? Could you not join them when she is better? They cannot go far. The soldiers are all about the place and who knows that the government troops are any better than our own? You are directly in the line of pursuit.’
Reyora’s eyes grew speculative.
‘Maybe they could camp somewhere in these parts, and I, for the baby’s sake, will seek refuge. You are very kind, my lord,’ Reyora looked into his eyes, ‘kind to a poor gypsy woman and a baby. You will never regret this kindness. I, the gypsy woman, tell you it will only bring you happiness.’
Brent looked at her and the tall lissom body, the lovely face of Analee suddenly danced in imagination before his eyes.
‘I owe the gypsies a kindness,’ he said suddenly.
‘Maybe you loved a gypsy once sir?’
Reyora looked at him slyly, but a curious thought had come into her mind. This soldier was being unusually kind ... she remembered the blond gadjo who had loved Analee. Could it be ... could this possibly be Morella’s father? Reyora shut her eyes and tried to conjure up her cohani powers of divination, but she was too tired and hungry, weary with shock and numb with exhaustion. This gadjo offered rest and it was all she wanted; warmth and rest for the baby. The cohani powers told her nothing and she opened her eyes to see the gadjo waving to his men.
‘I am summoned. I must go. I am sorry for the behaviour of our troops towards your people. Yes, I did once know a gypsy; but I cannot talk of that now, except to say that for her people I will do all I can. Listen, Delamain Castle is just a few leagues south of Penrith, and my mother, Mrs Delamain, lives in the dower house there. Ask your way in the town. You can see it from the hill there in the distance, surrounded by trees. Your people can scatter in the forest and rest for a while if they wish, but take care you or they do not go near the Castle for my brother Sir George Delamain would take a harsh view of gypsies, and I believe he is active with the militia.’
Reyora looked startled as Brent curled his lip and put her hand protectively about the baby’s head.
‘Oh do not fear; my Mother’s house is well hidden from the castle and he never goes near her. She is a kind and compassionate woman and will help you if you say I sent you and also my love. Tell her it was her son, Brent, to whom you spoke. Speak only to her or my sister Emma and stay with her until the baby is well. God go with you.’
Weary and sick as he was Brent’s voice broke and he looked longingly back the way he had come, towards the hill on which Penrith lay. Would he could go with them and find succour too. His mother would not betray him. But it was not to be. Whatever his destiny was, he had to follow it and, however reluctantly, ride on.
Reyora dropped a deep curtsy.
‘And with you, my lord, and bless you for your graciousness. See the baby has opened her eyes and smiles at you.’
And indeed Morella had opened her big blue eyes and gazed, without either of them being in the least aware of it, at her father. But even though he was ignorant of the fact, Brent’s heart was filled with emotion as the beautiful baby girl looked at him and a little smile tugged at her lips. She gurgled and held up a hand and he took it and smiled into her eyes and stifled a desire to kiss her soft little cheeks.
‘What is her name?’
‘Her mother called her Morella, sir. It is the secret name given by a gypsy’s mother, but I kept it as a talisman for her daughter.’
‘Morella,’ Brent said. ‘I will remember it. May only good things happen to you, kind woman.’
Brent remounted and gazed at the strange gypsy woman and the lovely baby. Suddenly Reyora darted up to him and, taking his hand, kissed it.
‘My lord, sir. You will suffer many things, but you will not die although you will come close to it. In the end you will find happiness, though there are more dark days ahead. Remember it is the gypsy woman, Reyora the cohani, who told you these things.’
Brent nodded at her gravely, his eyes unsmiling. ‘I will remember it.’
His companion had now separated gypsies and soldiers and sent the latter marching on their way. The sad gypsy remnant stood back from the road as he rode past them; they bowed to him and put up their hands in blessing. Ahead was his struggling, defeated army, but he turned in his saddle before he caught up with them and gazed back to where the gypsy woman Reyora stood a little apart from the others clasping the baby Morella. Brent Delamain stared at them for a long time. Then he put up a hand and waved farewell.
16
Even though such scenes as he had witnessed at the gypsy camp were not unfamiliar to him, Lord Falconer was still sufficiently affected by them to have his temper severely stretched. It was thus in something of a rage that he rode back to his camp and berated his men for their sluggishness and idleness, and bade them clean their muskets and shine their boots for they were hotly to pursue the rebels who were now holed up in Carlisle.
‘Rabble!’ his lordship muttered angrily as McNeath helped him off with his boots and asked if he were ready for his dinner. ‘Aye, though who could eat after that sight, and the stench ...’ The Marquess screwed up his aristocratic nose in a grimace of distaste. ‘Tell me di
d the gypsy women have aught to eat?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And are they on their way?’
‘No sir ...’
‘What?’ His commander rose to his feet gazing threateningly at his servant. ‘Don’t tell me the men ...’
‘Oh no, sir, I told them expressly not to touch the women, on your orders, sir. They are about to depart, but the older woman, Analee, would like to thank your lordship for your kindness.’
The Marquess waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal and poured himself some whisky.
‘Oh no, send them off, send them off. I want no gypsy woman hanging about, nor gratitude.’
But as he looked up Analee stood at the entrance to his tent and he grudgingly told her to enter.
‘We shall not “hang about”, my lord,’ Analee told him with quiet dignity. ‘I merely wished to thank your lordship for your humanity towards the gypsies and kindness in feeding us and offering us warmth. We are rested and ready to depart.’
The Marquess of Falconer lowered his glass and looked thoughtfully at the gypsy girl. Now that she was cleaned up and rested he confirmed what he had already suspected on the field – she was uncommonly pretty. She was thin, even scraggy – God knew it had been a hard winter and she must have had little to eat – but as she’d walked off the field he had been struck by the proud tilt of her head, the graceful way she carried herself, the sway of her hips that was distinctly alluring.
‘What will you do now woman?’ he enquired quietly, turning to refill his glass. ‘Where will you go?’
‘Why, sir, we are nomads ...’
‘But the place is swarming with soldiers. What chance do you and the girl with you think you will have of escaping rape seven times a day even if you do not lose your lives? Have you not heard about the Highlanders? Have you not seen ...’
Analee shuddered and covered her eyes.
‘Ah, pray do not, sir. Pray do not remind me of that terrible scene. We will go westward, away from the army ...’
She was aware that the Falcon was standing directly in front of her and she looked up to see him towering over her, his thin mouth pursed in a cruel sneer, his eyes gleaming.
‘The army are everywhere. A force of ours has gone to Whitehaven to detach the big cannon there to subdue Carlisle; they’re to the south, east, north and west. I doubt if you will live the week out. Still, no matter, I have done all I can.’ He made a gesture of dismissal.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Analee curtsied and turned to Nelly who stood sobbing behind her.
‘Come, Nelly ...’
‘Oh, Analee, what is to become of us?’
‘Hush girl,’ Analee said clasping her arm, ‘we have survived before. We shall again. Thank his lordship and come on. He is a very busy man.’
As Nelly started to sob her thanks Lord Falconer lifted his head and gazed at the roof of the tent.
‘I am prepared to help you find shelter. My home is not far distant, on the border, and if you go there you can find board and lodging in exchange for some services. You can clean, can you not, and ...’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ Nelly said, the flow of tears instantly ceasing. ‘And cook and help in the house ...’
‘Nelly!’ Analee said quickly. ‘Thank you, my lord, but we will be safe. We are used to wandering ...’
‘’Tis of no concern to me,’ his lordship said, turning to where his dinner was being put on the table. ‘You will not survive the week. Go and get killed. Ah, thank you, McNeath, and uncork some claret for me. I have an uncommon thirst after that hideous scene.’
‘But, Analee. I want ...’
‘You see,’ the Falcon observed to Analee with the trace of a smile, ‘your companion is not of the same mind as yourself. She would like shelter for some days. Is it not so? What is your name?’
‘Nelly, sir. Nelly Driver.?
‘Well, Nelly, you go by yourself and present my compliments to my housekeeper. McNeath will set you on your way.’
‘I could take her on my horse, my lord,’ McNeath said quickly, ‘if your lordship will allow it. It will be safer and quicker.’
‘Aye,’ his lordship started eating his soup. ‘Well you may do that, McNeath, and you two women had better say goodbye to each other.’
Quivering, Analee stood looking at the Colonel of the regiment. She was sure she had not misread the insolent light in his eyes as they had run over her body, the appreciative smirk on his face. ‘Some services’ indeed, ‘cooking and cleaning’ ... a likely story! If Analee was not mistaken, or deceived about the nature of men, these services would include some of a more intimate nature. Well ... Analee looked at the Colonel unconcernedly spooning his soup and then at Nelly trembling with fear. She felt too drained to care over much either about the desires of the one or the fears of the other and, yes, it would be nice to have a roof over their heads, regular food and shelter from the marauding bands of savage Highlanders. At least if she were going to be raped the Falcon would do it in style, whereas the Highlanders ... she had seen too recently the results of their debauchery.
Nelly by this time was hanging on to Analee’s shoulder sobbing, and Analee impulsively clasped her and patted her back.
‘There ...’
‘Ah, Analee, please come ...’
‘All right, I will if his lordship allows it. I cannot lose my companion can I?’ She stood back from Nelly and smiled encouragingly. Lord Falconer, closely observing her behaviour, thought to himself that she was indeed no ordinary gypsy. Here was a woman with style. His heart gave a little satisfied lurch. This was the only good thing that had happened all day. The beautiful gypsy was going to lodge under his roof and she would have every reason to be grateful to him.
‘Take both the women on your horse to Falcon’s Keep,’ the Marquess said with pretended indifference, ‘and enough of those female blatherings. And be quick back, McNeath, d’ye hear? Make sure my castle is well protected, but I think the Highlanders will avoid it on their way north. Be off now.’
And the Marquess returned to his soup without another glance at the women who, after curtsying once more, were ushered out of the tent by a respectful and delighted McNeath.
If he was not mistaken, the servant thought he had seen a singularly saucy look in the eyes of young Nelly as, earlier, she had eagerly scoffed up the food provided for the two women , casting him grateful glances.
***
At Carlisle where his army regrouped on 19 December, Prince Charles once again set about quarrelling with his commanders. He was gracious enough to congratulate Lord George Murray on his victory at Clifton. This brief period of amity was disrupted however when the Prince announced that he would pull out of Carlisle but leave a garrison there for its defence. His Highness was anxious now to return to Scotland where Lord John Drummond, the brother of the Duke of Perth, awaited him with fresh forces brought from France. From here he would launch another and, he felt, more successful attack on England which would take him to London.
Lord George Murray, still deathly tired after his days in the saddle tried to argue with his leader, but he was not supported by the other officers even though they privately agreed with him that Carlisle was not capable of being defended. Since the retreat from Derby the officers had grown wary of the Prince whose sudden violent and petty moods, whose long periods of silence and dejection, when he refused to talk to anybody, were so much at variance with his erstwhile good humour. No one liked to anger the Prince further at this stage by publicly disagreeing with him.
Accordingly, telling them that as soon as he had reformed his army he would return and relieve them, the Prince left a garrison of about 400 men and marched with the rest to the border which he crossed on 20 December, his twenty-fifth birthday. As he turned from the swirling waters of the Esk and looked back onto English soil little did he know he would never return to it again, at least at the head of an army.
Among those left behind to defend the town was Stewart Allonb
y. As many of the Highlanders as possible had been taken with the army because of their unpopularity with the townspeople, and most of the men who formed the garrison were English, either local men or men from the Manchester regiment. Many remained at their own wish, being reluctant to cross the border to Scotland.
Stewart was depressed about his chances of survival but determined to do his duty.
‘I would dearly love to come with you, Brent, for I think we shall be massacred here.’
‘And I would like to stay,’ Brent replied, clasping his cousin’s hand. ‘But it is not to be. Farewell, cousin, we shall soon return to relieve you.’
‘Will you?’ Stewart said bitterly, sitting on an upturned box in the bare room of his billet. The townspeople had set themselves resolutely against the Jacobites and there were few comforts to be had. The kindly host who had formerly been only too glad to accommodate Stewart now barred him. ‘I doubt it. The Prince will not see England again. Can’t you see now, Brent, he never had a chance? Why, everything about him is un-English, even his accent, which he cannot help because he was born and brought up abroad.’
‘Aye, but they say King George in London speaks with a German accent,’ Brent replied dryly.
‘It is his manner, his dress. Always the plaid, the kilt ... you can see how the English people would not take our army seriously, even though some of us are English and wear not the kilt. Very few.’
‘We must not give in, Stewart,’ Brent replied sternly. ‘We have committed our lot to the Prince.’
‘Aye, ‘tis too late,’ Stewart said. ‘Too late.’
The bugle sounded in the yard below and Brent saw the ranks of tired dispirited soldiers forming. The Prince and Lord George Murray were at opposite sides, the one looking proud yet and determined, the other bitter, but his haughty head raised higher than ever.
‘They never got on, those two,’ Brent said, shaking his head. ‘You may contribute much of our defeat to that fact. ‘Twas disastrous.’
Stewart stood behind his cousin and clapped him on the back. ‘You said not to talk of defeat, Brent. Now you do it. Go with them and fight, man, and we shall hold out until you return.’
The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga) Page 29