by Stella Riley
The house was bursting with Royalist refugees, every one of whom was Catholic. Inigo Jones the architect was there, and the engraver Wenceslas Hollar, and no less than seven priests. Sensing pitfalls ahead, Kate feigned shyness, introduced herself as Mistress del Santi and was grateful when the name caused a degree of lofty withdrawal. But more worrying than any mistakes she herself might make in this company was the discovery that the marquis had dismissed his Protestant military governor, Colonel Rawdon – along with five hundred of his men. Kate didn’t know how good the colonel had been at his job or whether the remaining garrison was so large that the men he had taken wouldn’t be missed. But with Mynheer Dalbier about to open fire, she couldn’t help but feel that it would have been nice to know there was a professional in charge.
The expected cannonade began the following morning and at first, few of the other inmates did more than complain gaily about the infernal noise. Kate did her best to share their confidence. After all, most of them had much more experience of siege-warfare than she did – so perhaps they were right when they said Basing would never fall. But two days later the great tower against which the guns had been consistently blazing crumbled spectacularly into a heap of rubble – and Colonel Dalbier turned his attention to the New House. Cannons were trained on the huge corner turret, horrible fumes from burning straw impregnated with arsenic and brimstone filled the house and Kate watched the hitherto carefree atmosphere turn to one of unease.
On the day that the first gaping, serpentine fissure appeared in the walls, she took a long thoughtful look at Lord Winchester’s exquisite house with its gilding, its moulded plaster-work and its lovely, elegant windows, each with the motto Aimez Loyauté engraved upon it. There was no doubt that the place was strong. But impregnable? Kate wondered. And prayed that Luciano would come back before she was forced to find out.
* * *
Devizes fell before the end of the month; Cromwell led his forces off to Winchester; and Luciano, despite his much-vaunted patience, began to get very tired of biding his time. News from elsewhere said that Fairfax had taken Berkeley Castle and the King, having dismissed Rupert and watched George Digby lose his northern cavalry, had taken himself off to Newark to wait for Montrose to bring his army south. But for Luciano, nothing existed outside the apparent impossibility of isolating Cyrus Winter from his fellows so that the business might be ended one way or another. And, as day followed day, he found himself growing increasingly short-tempered and reckless.
When Cromwell forced his way into Winchester and its defenders shut themselves up in the castle, Luciano gave up worrying about Captain Maxwell and slid unobtrusively into the city. For several days, he watched and listened as the guns of the New Model destroyed towers and created breaches. Then, just as it became obvious that the castle must be on the point of surrender, Selim disappeared.
It wasn’t his fault. One minute he’d been pouring ale down the willing throat of a red-faced sergeant for the sake of picking up a few scraps of information, and the next he’d found himself looking down the barrel of Tom Tripp’s pistol.
‘Got you,’ said Tom, cheerfully appropriating the nasty heathen knife. And then, tutting reprovingly, ‘You didn’t ought to have come back spying again. Mr Eden told you that, didn’t he? And now I reckon he’s going to have quite a few things to say to that slippery master of yours – when we find him. So get up. You’re coming along with me.’
Back in their squalid lodgings, Luciano did not become seriously worried until much later in the afternoon; then it took a further two hours before he eventually found someone who had seen Selim marched off under close arrest. And after that, of course, there was naturally only one thing he could do.
Having got past the troopers at the door, he found Eden buckling on his sword whilst receiving a series of crisp orders from his superior. Luciano did not know that the dark-haired major was the man whose illegitimacy had helped send his own father to the scaffold – and, even if he had, would still have said curtly, ‘I believe you have my servant.’
‘What did you expect?’ returned Eden. And then, to the major, ‘I apologise for the interruption – but this fellow and his groom have been creeping about asking questions ever since Bristol. So I thought it was time to pull them both in.’
‘Quite right.’ Gabriel Brandon pulled on his gloves and glanced briefly at Luciano. ‘But you haven’t time to attend to that now.’
‘I know.’ Smiling coldly, Eden summoned the men at the door and then said, ‘You were warned, I believe. But what have you done with your so-called wife?’
‘She’s safe,’ snapped Luciano. Then, ‘Don’t play games, Eden. You don’t know what you’re meddling with.’
‘Don’t I? Then it will be up to you to tell me, won’t it? Tomorrow.’ And, signalling to the troopers, ‘Put him in the cellar with the other one and stay on watch. If they get out, I’ll hold you personally responsible.’
* * *
The cellar was dark, damp and not made any more comfortable by the results of his stupid attempts at resistance or Selim’s determination to apologise every second or third word. Luciano bore it as long as he could and then, forcefully and in the vernacular, told the Turk to be quiet.
Time passed … how long, he did not know. Outside in the town, the great guns fell silent; and then, much later, came the faint sound of voices and jingling harnesses followed by a great many hooves. Icy fear began to settle in Luciano’s chest. And finally, more than twenty-four hours after it had been locked, the door swung open again.
It was very early morning and, blinking in the light, Luciano and Selim were taken at sword-point to the room once more occupied by Eden Maxwell. He was sitting on a table, gently swinging one booted foot and, when the door closed behind his prisoners, he said crisply, ‘I asked you once before – and this time you’d better tell me. Where’s Kate?’
‘Why should you care?’ retorted Luciano.
‘Because, with the exception of my own regiment, the rest of the army’s already on the move and I’d like to be sure you haven’t left her in its path. Now. Where is she?’
‘Your concern overwhelms me,’ came the sardonic reply. ‘But you needn’t worry. She’s at Basing House.’
Eden froze. ‘What?’
Luciano felt his heart stop.
For a long, airless moment, hazel eyes met midnight blue and then Eden said furiously, ‘You stupid bloody fool! Do you know what you’ve done?’
Luciano had turned perfectly white. He said, ‘I’m beginning to guess. How long ago did Cromwell leave?’
‘Last evening. He’ll be marching on Basing from Alresford just about now. And when he gets there … Christ! He’s got six thousand men and a full artillery train, including a cannon royal. This time Basing will fall.’
‘And Cromwell won’t show much mercy to a nest of Papists – of which Caterina will assumed to be one. Quite. You don’t need to paint a picture.’ Luciano drew a long breath. ‘You’ve got to let me go. I may not be in time to get her out – but at least I can be with her.’
‘And what good will that do?’
‘On its own, not much perhaps – though you’ll know that no one will touch her while Selim and I are alive to prevent it. But the outcome really depends on how much other help you’re prepared to give me. And we haven’t the time to argue over it. Well?’
Eden hesitated and then swung himself from the table.
‘Go on,’ he said frigidly. ‘I’m listening.’
* * *
Once more armed with their own weapons and on horses of Eden’s providing, Luciano and Selim covered the twenty miles to Basingstoke at break-neck speed, only to find the town already swarming with the army’s advance guard. Luciano swore but did not waste time investigating further … and another twenty minutes brought Basing House into view.
Dalbier’s guns could be heard firing on the far side of the mansion and, even though he could not see what damage they were inflicting, Luciano dis
covered that he felt sick. But now was no time to hesitate. Following the same cunning route they had used before, he led Selim up to the walls and sought admittance. Then they were inside and being taken directly to the marquis.
Lord Winchester listened gravely while Luciano described the forces about to descend on him and then said, ‘It seems we’re about to face our sorest test. I had best alert the garrison.’
‘You had also,’ replied Luciano tersely, ‘better consider how to answer Cromwell’s summons when it comes.’
‘I don’t need to consider it. My house’s other name is Loyalty. And once His Majesty knows that we are in extremis, he will almost certainly send help.’
‘He’s none to send. His armies are in disarray everywhere and rumour has it that even Montrose has been defeated.’
‘Then we are in God’s hands,’ came the gentle reply. And then, as the door opened, ‘Ah. Your charming lady. I will leave you to be reunited in private.’
Her hand frozen on the door-latch, Kate neither curtsied nor even saw the marquis as he passed her. She merely drowned in her husband’s eyes until he said wryly, ‘Forgive me, carissima mia. I came to take you away … but I am very much afraid that it is already too late.’
And then, half-blinded by thankful tears, she flew across the room into his arms; and thought was suspended for both of them.
~ * * ~ * * ~
NINE
‘Tomorrow,’ said Luciano finally and with certainty. ‘For good or ill, it will end tomorrow.’
It was Monday, October 13th and the forces of the New Model had been outside for six days … arriving within an hour of Luciano himself to take up positions all around - and effectively crushing any hope of a discreet exit. Then they had begun siting their guns and the inmates of Basing House had watched in silence as the great cannon royal was heaved majestically into place, ready to fire its murderous sixty-three pound shots.
One look at it had convinced the marquis that other, non-defensive measures were now called for, with the result that Luciano had spent the next three days melting down quantities of plate and transforming it – for want of more suitable casts – into a herd of small, golden stags, which his lordship had then promptly and privately hidden.
The long-awaited summons to surrender had eventually come on the afternoon of the 11th and contained an unsurprising warning from Cromwell that the house could look for no mercy if it continued to stand against him. Equally unsurprisingly, the marquis sent back a flat refusal. And, on the morning of the 12th, the Lieutenant-General’s guns had opened fire.
For two days the house was subjected to a heavy, ceaseless bombardment until, by the evening of the 13th, the walls had been severely breached in at least two places. And that was when Luciano looked grimly at Kate and said, ‘Tomorrow.’
Her nerves frayed by forty-eight hours of deafening noise and tooth-rattling vibration, she took her time about answering. Then, ‘Have we no hope of holding out?’
‘With a garrison of only three hundred against seven thousand? None. They’ll take this place in a matter of hours.’
‘And when they do?’
‘All hell will break loose – in more ways than one,’ he replied deliberately. ‘Because, when they come, Cyrus Winter will come with them. And it’s time we met.’
Veiling her fear as best she could, Kate lifted her eyes to meet his. She said carefully, ‘So this is it, then.’
‘Yes.’ His hands lightly clasping her waist, he suddenly smiled with all the old, wickedly enticing charm. ‘This is it. And you are thinking precisely what I am thinking.’
‘I am?’
‘Certainly you are. You’re thinking that – no matter what tomorrow may bring – we still have tonight. And you’re wondering just where, in this magnificent over-crowded hen-coop, we can find the privacy to spend it together. Fortunately, however, I have the answer.’
‘Of course you have,’ said Kate, somewhere between tears and laughter. ‘It’s a habit with you.’
‘Are you complaining?’
‘Yes. I’d like to know why you didn’t address this problem six days ago. Unless, of course, you like sleeping with Selim?’
‘And Viscount Staveley and his man,’ he nodded, cheerfully leading her away towards the back stairs. ‘The bonhomie in our garret is frankly crippling. But enough is enough and I believe I can bear to miss it for once.’
Maintaining this gentle flow of eloquence all the way to their destination, he finally threw open a door in one of the less-frequented corridors and said, ‘There! Never say I don’t know what’s due to a lady.’
It was a small, windowless store-room, piled high with old tapestries, balding rugs and moth-eaten furs. It was also, as he had said, wonderfully private.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. And meant it.
‘I thought you’d like it. And see – the door is even quipped with a key.’ He turned it in the lock and, producing candle and tinder from his pocket, made a light. ‘What more could we possibly want?’
‘Nothing.’ She moved, dream-like, into the waiting circle of his arms, every cell in her body already wanting him. ‘Nothing. It’s all here.’
He kissed her slowly and with tantalising lightness before gathering her closer still. Her fingers wove their way through the long, night-dark hair at his nape and her mouth breathed hunger into his. Then he began the leisurely and entirely pleasurable process of disrobing her. Her gown slid away and was presently followed by petticoats and stays while, in between kisses, Luciano murmured endearments in mingled Italian and English.
Her body aflame under the exquisite mastery of his hands and the seductive silk of his voice, Kate smoothed the shirt from his shoulders and absorbed the now-familiar but no less addictive scent and taste of his throat and chest.
‘I love you. Ti amo, Luciano. So much.’
‘And I you. Mia bella Caterina … luce della mia vita. Light of my life.’
The rest of their clothes melted away and flesh met flesh. Desire, inextricably laced with fear of what the morrow might bring, flowed over and through them like a rushing stream and bore them down on their makeshift bed of furs.
Luciano’s hands moulded her breasts and his mouth followed them. Kate sobbed his name and pulled him to her, her fingers clinging to the smooth skin of his back.
She thought, Don’t die. If you die, how shall I bear it?
And pressed her mouth against his shoulder so that she didn’t say it.
He joined with her and pleasure built to a crescendo, temporarily driving out fear. And though, for Luciano, urgency overcame artistry, it could not dim what lay behind it. Love and delicacy and tenderness, all gleaming like so many golden coins in the torrent; and lighting the darkness long after the candle had guttered and gone out.
* * *
The following morning dawned chill and grey. Together with Selim, Kate and Luciano stood high on a turret watching the mist swirl in from Loddon Marsh and waiting for the light to show them what, if anything, was happening beyond the walls. It was a little past five o’clock and, for the first time in days, the silence was broken only by the steady tramp of sentries’ feet.
Luciano frowned, wondering if he’d guessed wrongly … or, if he hadn’t, why the whole garrison wasn’t already standing to arms. Then, because there are times when you have to accept that, with the best will in the world, you can’t control everything, he held Kate close in the circle of his arm and said, ‘It’s time we considered our personal strategy. Once Cromwell’s fellows get past the breaches, they’ll overrun the house in no time and there will be a lot of general unpleasantness. So since there’s no one outside Selim and myself to whom I can confidently entrust your safety once the chaos starts – and I’m not prepared to run the risk of you being hauled out of some priest’s hole or other – the only thing we can do is to stay close together.’
‘That’s good.’ Kate surveyed him out of eyes that were at distinct variance with apparent levity in her
voice. ‘I’d planned on not letting you out of my sight.’
‘See that you don’t. And if we’re to stand any chance of coming out of this alive, you’d also better make sure you follow my instructions to the letter,’ he returned grimly. ‘And now we come to the best bit. I told you that Eden summoned enough brotherly feeling to let Selim and myself out of his cellar. What I haven’t yet told you is that – unless he’s thought better of it – we also came to a small arrangement.’
‘You told him?’ she asked faintly.
‘Enough to foster a little cooperation – but not enough to trigger any interference.’
And with brisk and faintly caustic satisfaction, Luciano explained.
* * *
At six o’clock the pall of silence was briefly shattered by a single, thunderous roar of cannon-fire; and from out of the gloom, rank upon rank of the New Model Army began their relentless advance on Basing House. The breath of each man smoked on the early morning air and the only sound was that of their footfalls, coupled with the metallic rasp of arms on armour. On they came for God and the Parliament … on and on, across the soft, wet grass of the park, like the well-honed fighting machine they were. And finally, half-way to their goal and far, far too late, they were seen from the walls.
A confused cry of, ‘To arms – they are upon us!’ arose from within and alarm drums began frantically beating. With the mechanical ease of two long years’ practice, the garrison swarmed to their posts and down into the cavernous breaches which they had somehow to defend against the oncoming flood … while, with no further use for stealth, Cromwell’s forces bellowed a great, seven-thousand-strong chorus and hurled themselves in a massive red tide on both sides of the house at once.
Pandemonium erupted. Musket-fire tore the air and created a kind of savage counterpoint with the drums; swords chimed and hissed and slithered; men shouted in triumph, howled with pain and died, screaming. With glorious, hopeless courage, Lord Winchester’s men attempted to stem the onslaught by selling their lives at the highest possible cost; and, maimed, bleeding or dying, men dropped where they stood and were trampled underfoot. For there was no way of stopping the relentless cataract that poured in upon them and, in no time at all, the breaches were full of Roundheads.