The Black Madonna (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 1)

by Stella Riley

  ‘You could always pass the odd half-hour writing to me,’ remarked Eden lightly. ‘In fact, I rather wish you would.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try if you like – but you know perfectly well I’m not much good with a pen. And if I don’t know where you are, how am I to know where to send my letters?’

  Eden dropped on one knee beside her and captured both her hands in his.

  ‘Have you missed me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Her colour deepened fractionally and she tried to distract him with her most blinding smile. ‘And what of you? I’ll wager you’ve flirted with a score of girls while you’ve been away.’

  ‘Neither a score nor a dozen – nor even one,’ he replied, drawing her down out of her chair and into his arms. ‘As you’re very well aware, I’ve no interest in second-best. And since the most beautiful woman in the world happens to be my wife, all I’ve done since I left is dream of this moment.’

  His fingers, defter than they used to be – or perhaps just more impatient – had removed the pins from her hair and were already at the laces of her gown. She said feebly, ‘You – you’re very importunate.’

  ‘Yes, my heart.’ And, with a tremor of laughter, ‘Aren’t you?’

  Celia closed her eyes and kept her mind carefully blank.

  * * *

  On the following morning, Eden talked privately with his mother for a long time and then went in search of Kate to say bluntly, ‘I’m sorry about Clifford. He was a decent fellow.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at her obliquely for a moment and then said, ‘Is there anyone else?’

  ‘Is it any of your business?’

  ‘Meaning that it isn’t. All right. Have it your own way. But you can’t still be hankering after that bloody Italian, surely?’

  Kate eyed him with acute disfavour.

  ‘Another brilliant conversation stopper. Did you want to talk to me or not?’

  Eden sighed and gave up.

  ‘Yes. Firstly, congratulations on keeping Cyrus Winter out --’

  ‘Yes. Well, that bloody Italian had a lot to do with that.’

  ‘ – and commiserations on the fate of the saker. But how come William Compton was able to ride, unchallenged, right up to the front door?’

  ‘Mainly because we were all otherwise engaged. But it wouldn’t have made any difference. We might have kept him out of the house but we can’t seal up all the farms – as you very well know.’ She hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘Has anyone mentioned that Hugo Verney is presently attached to the Banbury garrison and is the officer sent to collect the quarterly taxes?’

  ‘Yes. Celia told me. Did you think she wouldn’t?’ He regarded her over folded arms. ‘No – don’t answer that. I’d hoped you’d have learned a little tolerance by now.’

  ‘I have,’ responded Kate sweetly. ‘But, like most things, it’s supposed to work both ways.’

  * * *

  While Eden was slipping quietly away from Thorne Ash to join Sir William Waller somewhere in Shropshire, Sir William’s cousin Edmund was arrested for plotting to seize London for the King. This, not unnaturally, sent Mr Pym’s nerves into spasm and caused him to impose a new Oath of Loyalty on all Members of Parliament and men of authority everywhere. And with this furore barely over, worse was to come. On June 17th, Prince Rupert led one of his lightning raids on the village of Chinnor and followed it up with an equally successful engagement at Chalgrove where John Hampden was severely wounded in the shoulder. Six days later, he was dead.

  It was a great blow to the Parliament. Hampden was not only the man who’d rocked the nation by taking his ship-money case to court; he was also the most popular, persuasive and shrewd member of the Commons. And with the Royalist fortunes so firmly in the ascendancy, his loss was something Westminster could ill-afford.

  Time was when Celia would have crowed with delight but, by the end of June, she had other things on her mind. There was no doubt that she was pregnant again – and the condition was no more welcome to her than it had been before. The only difference was that, this time, her dismay was better founded.

  ~ * * ~ * * ~

  EIGHT

  On the late afternoon of Monday July 24th, Luciano del Santi sat with his servant at Clifton and stared moodily across at Bristol. It had taken the best part of six painstaking months to trace Ahiram Webb, in the midst of which he’d had to make the annual and increasingly difficult journey to Genoa – and then, on discovering that Bristol’s Governor was none other than Nathaniel Fiennes, to spend yet more time and money acquiring a safe conduct from the Parliament. Not, with Lord Essex threatening to resign if his troops weren’t paid, that this had presented any particular problem. And with a pass signed by John Pym in one pocket and a second signed by the King’s nephew in the other, life should become demonstrably simpler.

  As always, however, the complications were never where one looked for them. A mere ten days ago, Sir William Waller had been soundly thrashed near Devizes at a battle the Cavaliers were already calling Runaway Down and had retreated to lick his wounds at Gloucester – thus giving the Royalists a perfect opportunity to subdue the West. And, naturally enough, they had started with the second city and port of the kingdom.

  Bristol. Moated on two sides by the Avon and the Frome, it was protected to the west by a new earthwork, starred by five ditched-and-palisaded forts, within which the old medieval walls enclosed both the city and part of the sprawling suburb of Redcliffe. Bristol … with its twenty churches, high gabled houses and underground sewerage system; its quays, roperies, soap manufactories and dockside stews. And brooding over all of these, its massive eighteen-acre castle, perched on a slope of solid rock. Bristol … which Colonel Fiennes had to hold with less than two thousand men against a force of roughly fifteen thousand under the personal, ironic direction of Prince Rupert.

  After twenty-four frustrating hours of waiting, during the course of which his night’s sleep had been ruined by a pair of twelve-pounders bombarding Brandon Hill Fort and his morning depressed by Colonel Fiennes’ polite refusal to surrender, Luciano knew a good deal more than he wanted to about Bristol. He’d also collected the sardonic Palatine gaze long enough to be informed that he might stay if he liked but had better keep out of the way and expect no favours.

  ‘It’s nothing personal,’ murmured Francis Langley who, having finally succeeded in getting himself transferred to Rupert, was finding fighting less tedious than he’d previously thought it. ‘His temper’s uncertain and we’re all busy not invoking it. There are subterranean rumblings of a woman – but no one cares to say too much in case they go the way of Dan O’Neill.’ He leaned closer and achieved an artistic shudder. ‘Stripped of his command for an ill-timed pleasantry. Only think of it! It might have been me.’

  ‘It may still be you,’ returned Luciano dryly. ‘Only think of it.’

  Francis smiled faintly and then, with a complete change of manner, said, ‘You’ve heard about Kit Clifford?’

  ‘Yes.’ Expressionlessly.

  ‘And regret nothing. How nice for you. But a word to the wise. Stay away from Sister Venetia if you want all your parts to remain intact.’

  Luciano had only the haziest recollections of Venetia Clifford. He said slowly, ‘Isn’t she still in the North with the Queen?’

  ‘No. She’s in Oxford with the Queen. Didn’t you know? The She-Generalissima met His Majesty at Edgehill two weeks ago. With the result,’ finished Francis, preparing to return to his duties, ‘that we’re all packed in like herrings in a barrel.’

  ‘Wait.’ Luciano detained him. ‘I believe Dorothy Maxwell’s brother is in Oxford, along with an Irishman named Liam Aherne. Have you met him?’

  ‘Aherne? Barely. He was a disappointment. I was expecting saffron and leggings. And an axe.’

  ‘You would. And his politics?’

  ‘Who can fathom the Irish? But,’ said Francis, sighing, ‘I gather he’s walking a fine line between Ormonde and the reb
els and looking for support for the idea of a truce.’

  ‘Will he get it?’

  ‘That depends on how badly the King wants some Irish levies. What is it to you?’

  ‘As yet, very little.’ The extract from Tabitha’s latest letter which Tobias had rushed to show him had made interesting reading. Luciano smiled with affable finality. ‘But you know how it is. Forewarned is forearmed … and other similar clichés.’

  * * *

  After a day rent with volleys of musket, cannon and loose shot from both sides, darkness finally brought some respite, and Luciano lay down once more in a corner of Bernard de Gomme’s tent in the feeble hope of repairing last night’s omissions. Comfort, after all, was only a matter of custom – and he’d spent a good many nights in worse places than this. On that first terrible journey to Genoa with his small sister and rapidly ailing mother, for example. They’d slept in stables and byres, caves and ditches – anywhere that offered some sort of meagre shelter. And all the while, his beautiful, bewildered mother had been disintegrating into a ragged prematurely aged consumptive, drowning in her own blood.

  Luciano sat up abruptly and tried to block out the memory.

  Don’t think of it, ran the pattern. Not now. Think of it, if you must, when you’re face to face with Ahiram Webb.

  Which was undeniably sensible, but, as usual, no cure.

  He finally fell into an uneasy doze, only to be rudely awakened around midnight by what he later learned was a salvo designed to unnerve the defenders of Prior’s Hill. It probably worked. Certainly, coming out of the silence as it did, it was enough to wake the Dutch engineer, who immediately dragged his guest outside to admire the ensuing hour-long display of fireworks.

  ‘Do you not think,’ asked de Gomme fondly, ‘that it is a beautiful piece of danger to see so many fires incessantly in the dark?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s marvellous,’ came the arid reply. ‘But is it achieving anything?’

  By eleven on Tuesday morning, Colonel Wentworth came to the conclusion that his men and ordnance were doing so little harm to the Brandon Fort that he might as well send them down to Lord Grandison below Prior’s Hill. And while a second day passed in apparently useless volleys and skirmishing, Luciano ground his teeth and wondered whether he had been foolish to stay.

  But by mid-afternoon the various comings and goings took on a new air of urgency and Selim, mingling companionably with the common soldiery, came back with the news that rumour predicted a general assault. Two hours later this was confirmed by Francis Langley who said negligently, ‘An assault? Yes. At dawn tomorrow. Aren’t you glad you waited?’

  ‘Ecstatic. Will it work?’

  ‘It’s no use asking a mere lieutenant.’ Francis smiled annoyingly. ‘All I know is that we’re all required to get hot and sweaty, rushing about with bits of greenery in our hats and screaming the word “Oxford”. So tedious!’

  * * *

  Bernard de Gomme having been called to a briefing with the Prince at Redland and Selim having gone off fraternising again, Luciano ate a solitary and unappetising meal and then sat outside the tent, staring unseeingly into the deepening dusk. The sound of gunfire still tore the air – occasionally punctuated by the odd explosion – but, with his mind turned to what lay ahead of him in Bristol, Luciano found it less disturbing than usual. And then, without warning, Cyrus Winter was before him.

  It was the first time they had met since that memorable evening at Whitehall eighteen months ago – for one could not count the more recent episode at Thorne Ash. Gazing enigmatically up at the striking, silver-haired figure, Luciano wondered whether Winter even knew he’d been there at the time; and then concluded that, gossip within the army being what it was, he probably did. In which case the instinctive and wholly mutual dislike that eddied and flowed between them had found a reasonable cause at last.

  Luciano neither moved nor spoke and finally Captain Winter said softly, ‘I heard that you were here – and ought, I suppose, to have known better than be surprised at your effrontery.’

  ‘Oh quite,’ came the bored reply. ‘Deformed and low-bred as I am, colossal nerve is an absolute necessity. Did you want something?’

  ‘Aside from giving you a lesson in manners? Yes. I wished to remark that your presence amongst us is becoming a little coincidental. Suspiciously so, in fact. I believe we can dispense with it.’

  ‘Or you’ll have me taken for a spy? But if you could do that, we wouldn’t be here discussing it, would we? And perhaps you should consider the fact that, without access to my purse, His Majesty might start delving into yours.’

  ‘But if what one hears is true, your purse – like your loyalty – is offered both ways.’

  His loan to the Parliament ought not to be common knowledge; but because civil war is by nature incestuous, Luciano saw no reason for undue concern. Instead, he came slowly to his feet, a smile spreading over his face and said, ‘Dear me. I know what it is. You’re still peeved because Mistress Kate and I made your men dance. But you mustn’t worry. I haven’t told a soul how amusing they looked. And experience, as they say, is never bought cheaply.’

  * * *

  The storming of Bristol began somewhat prematurely when, still fermenting with confidence from their victory over Waller, the Cornishmen fell to on the Somerset side at a little before three in the morning. Prince Rupert immediately drew up the various regiments of Horse in places where they might best assist the work of the Foot and then issued the order for the general assault – after which dawn broke over six-pronged pandemonium.

  The key lay in finding some exploitable weakness and this, inevitably, took time. Throughout the morning, Lord Grandison tested the line on either side of Prior’s Hill while Major Sanders advanced to within push of pike some little way to the east. On the other side, Prince Maurice led the Cornishmen, and Colonels Wentworth and Washington attacked the works between Brandon Fort and the Windmill. Lord Grandison was shot in the leg; Major Sanders lost twenty men in as many minutes; and the Cornish, attacking over the worst of the ground, suffered heavy losses and retired in disorder. Fortunately, Colonel Washington’s dragoons successfully occupied the dead ground directly below the enemy from where they managed to clear the Roundheads from their lines – and thus, in the early afternoon, force the first breach.

  Armed to the teeth and with Selim at his shoulder, Luciano had taken up a position as close as possible to the Prince’s staff. Rupert himself, of course, was no more than an energetic blur as he galloped hither and thither, encouraging, reforming and steadying his men. But that didn’t matter. The command-post was the centre for all news and Luciano was determined to keep it under his eye.

  He did not, as it turned out, have long to wait. Word of Washington’s breach arrived, along with a request for someone to bring up a fresh mount for His Highness to replace the one that had just been shot from under him. Luciano eavesdropped attentively to the messenger’s description of progress so far and then murmured thoughtfully, ‘I wonder … I wonder if we might risk moving a little closer.’

  ‘Closer,’ asked Selim, ‘to what?’

  ‘The way in. What else?

  The Turk eyed his master uneasily. Better than anybody, he knew Luciano’s single pursuing weakness; and, better than anybody, he knew what the response was likely to be if he mentioned it now. He said cautiously, ‘Is it not a little soon? The man said they are still fighting their way into the suburbs.’

  ‘Quite. But the man also said they have Fiennes’ cavalry in retreat ahead of them.’ Luciano gave a bright, impersonal smile. ‘Come on. I promise I won’t faint. And with practice, I may even learn not to be sick.’

  Finding their way down to the breach was more difficult than crossing it – since they were able to follow in the wake of Colonel Belasyse’s relief force. Inside, however, was the kind of shambles that reminded Luciano nastily of Powick Bridge and forced him to exert strict control over his stomach.

  It was the smell that was
his chief enemy. With a little care, it was possible to avoid seeing the worst of the butchery; the torn and burnt flesh, the sightless eyes and mangled limbs. But the metallic odour of fresh blood came with every breath, inescapable and instantly cathartic. Luciano let his lungs empty and then forced himself to re-inflate them. He was here, after all, to test himself. And one couldn’t remain twelve years old forever.

  Afterwards, he was never very sure how he survived the hours that followed. When your formal education ends abruptly at the age of eleven and the rest of your youth is spent acquiring unrivalled excellence in a back-street workshop, you used your moments of leisure and the time when other people slept to snatch whatever learning you could. And since books were expensive, you learned languages and geography from the sailors at the dockside, mathematics from your uncle’s ledgers and self-defence – both physical and verbal – from every lout who called you a hunchback. From this, you emerged with an education of sorts – the kind, at any rate, that you needed. But you learned nothing of music or poetry, philosophy or history; all the gentler but less useful arts which appealed. And one more which didn’t appeal at all but which was, unfortunately, necessary. The use of arms.

  But for the solid presence of Selim at his back, he’d have been killed or maimed a dozen times or more over the last five years. His knowledge of swordplay had mostly come from a one-eyed Venetian mercenary-turned-knife-grinder and, never having fought in earnest, he had no idea how effective it would be. He felt more comfortable with firearms – for marksmanship was easier to practise and accuracy came naturally to him; but then again, perhaps it was different shooting at a live target. At any rate, he would soon know.