To Sleep No More

by Deryn Lake

  With a huge effort, Benjamin thrust himself on to one of the cart’s wheels, trying to hang on to the hub, calling again and again, ‘Jenna, I’m here. Be brave, my sweetheart. I’m here with you.’ But one of the javelin men knocked him off and he had to fight to keep his balance, terrified of being trampled by the crowd and disappearing from Jenna’s view. She smiled at him very faintly as the vehicle came to a standstill beneath the nooses.

  ‘The woman to be turned off first,’ said the Sheriff, and the mob, swollen in number by those who had been waiting at the foot of the gibbet itself, let out an almighty cheer. Then there was a sudden silence as the bellman began to ring the clapper to denote the time of execution had arrived.

  Benjamin closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, Jenna, the rope being placed around her neck by the hangman, was frantically searching the crowd. Then she saw him. His darling saw him. And as the hangman kicked the old horse’s rump and the cart moved forward, she smiled one long last sad smile before, very slowly, she began to dance.

  *

  The valley grew quiet as night fell. Over to the west, beyond the little cottage and the dancing silver pond, the sun lowered in the sky amidst a crimson tournament, tents and flags and devices clearly visible in the clouds. A round moon, pale as milk, appeared nervously and a thin persistent wind moaned round, taking away the last bright heat of the day.

  Agnes, the baby in her arms, said at last, ‘Do you think Benjamin will come back tonight? Perhaps he intends to stay with Jenna, keeping watch.’

  ‘I’ll go and look for him,’ answered Daniel. ‘He’s bound to take the high track above Sharnden. Get some hot food ready, Agnes, I feel this might be a long night.’

  Putting on his hat and taking a lantern, he left the cottage and Agnes was alone to throw more wood on the fire and see to the cooking. But when all her chores were done and there was still no sign of the men, she grew anxious and, taking a shawl, stepped outside to peer into the darkness.

  High above, the silver goddess gleamed faintly, for the wind had dropped again and the heavens were misty and starless. There was no noise anywhere except, unexpectedly, a fox suddenly barking near at hand. Agnes, turning her head in the direction of the sound, saw that Jenna stood in the doorway, her black hair flowing outward like a veil. With a cry she spun round to look properly but saw only the shadow of the porch and the cloud of roses that rambled over it.

  Shivering, she went inside and threw all the wood she could find on to the dying flames. The fire flared up and Agnes, crouching by the hearth, thought of another fire, a fire that had culminated in the grim scene at Horsham today, and brought them all to grief.

  There was the unexpected sound of voices outside — men’s voices. She ran to the door and threw it open in welcome, thinking that her father had met Benjamin and invited others in from Baynden to comfort him. But the greeting died on her lips. Her brother-in-law lay across the shoulders of Daniel and three others, his head hanging backwards and his bright blue eyes staring straight into hers. He was as dead as a slaughtered lamb.

  Too shocked to speak, Agnes gave a choking cry and her father said, ‘Rob Collyns found him in Hawkesden Park. He had hanged himself. He died by his own hand in the same way as Jenna.’

  ‘Put him on the table,’ answered Rob. ‘Then one of us best go for the constable.’

  But Agnes was no longer listening to them, nor even thinking of poor dead Benjamin. From his wooden crib beside the hearth, the baby had given a sudden cry. She bent over and picked him up and he opened his eyes and smiled at her; a small sweet milky smile.

  Then he fell asleep again but Agnes, taking her place before the hearth, stayed awake and stared for a long time into the ever-deepening shadows.

  Part Three — The Midnight Maze

  Thirty-three

  In the dense blackness that followed the hour after nightfall, the horse and rider, waiting in the copse beside the track, seemed to merge into the landscape, their breathing muted and the jangle of harness as the horse moved his feet very slightly, little above a murmur. The night had absorbed the man and his mount into its mysterious quiet.

  Then came a change. The horse’s ears went forward and the man moved in his saddle, leaning over his mount as he strained to hear a distant sound. It came again and he tensed even more: at the top of the hill a coach had started its lumbering progress down the steep incline of Pennybridge. The moment had arrived.

  Like shadows, the two glided through the trees to the side of the track — well worn with the marks of wheels — and once more melted into their surroundings. Though the man could not see the coach, he could hear the driver calling to the horses to slow down as they started the steepest part of the descent of the main London to Mayfield coaching road.

  He was ready. Pulling his neckerchief up over the lower part of his face, the highwayman stepped from the shadows, drew out his pistols, and, calling, ‘Stand fast,’ was at the coach door before any inside had had a moment to draw a weapon. Again he ordered, ‘Stand fast,’ and then, as the vehicle drew shudderingly to a halt, stared through the window at the people within.

  At first he could see nothing but a large wig and a hand nervously turning a silver snuff box in its grasp, but then a movement drew his attention to a girl sitting beside the male passenger, a girl who leaned forward and gave the highwayman a curious look from eyes as clear as jade, before she leant back once more against the upholstery. There were also two servants, one young and frightened, obviously the girl’s maid; the other a great hulking fellow who stared at the robber as if he would like to kill him.

  A movement from the coachman’s box caught the highwayman’s eye, and he had shot the pistol from the man’s hand and wounded him in the shoulder before he had more than half turned. As the coachman gave a cry of pain there was a shout of, ‘You bastard,’ and he saw that the servant was leaning out of the window, observing him.

  ‘Come on,’ he called roughly. ‘Get out all of you. And you get down from the box. A shoulder wound won’t kill you.’

  The passengers began to dismount, first the wig, followed by the girl and her maid, finally the hefty servant. As they drew to eye level, the big man said, ‘Who are you? There’s been no highwayman at Pennybridge these six months past.’

  ‘Don’t ask questions,’ came the growled reply, followed by the instruction, ‘You men, lie on the ground, face down. And you ...’ He gestured to the frightened serving girl. ‘... tie them with this.’ Throwing a rope from his saddle he turned his attention to the owner of the jade-green eyes. ‘Where’s the money-box?’

  ‘We carried none,’ she answered quickly.

  ‘Really? Unusual for a gentleman returning from London to be without funds. Now where is it?’

  ‘Tell him, Henrietta,’ said the muffled voice of the bewigged man.

  Shooting her questioner a dark look, the girl gestured inside. ‘It’s on the seat. The steward was carrying it.’

  The highwayman smiled beneath his masking kerchief. ‘Then fetch it, my girl.’

  ‘You insolent poxer,’ said the wig, still in muffled tones. ‘You are addressing Miss Henrietta Trevor of Glynde and will show some courtesy, damme.’

  Now it was her turn to smile. ‘Oh Squire Baker, this is no time to teach him a lesson in manners. Let us give the ruffian what he wants and be on our way.’ And with that she stepped up into the coach and returned a moment later with a heavy, securely locked box.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Trevor,’ said the robber, ‘most kind, damme.’ He was mocking the squire in his growling voice with its marked accent of some county in England foreign to Sussex. ‘Now put it on the ground.’

  She did so and, gesturing her to stand back, the highwayman shot off the lock, then dismounted, taking his saddle bags and flinging them to the servant-girl.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he said, not unkindly.

  ‘Sarah, Sir.’

  ‘Then fill the bags, Sarah, while I take the gentlem
an’s jewellery. I’ll deal with Miss Trevor in a moment.’

  He bent down, briskly searching the vigorously protesting Squire Baker — whose wig had now slipped to one side making the shape of a ridiculous spaniel ear — and removing his jewels, snuff-boxes and sovereigns. Then he turned back to Henrietta. ‘Now what do you have, Miss Trevor?’

  He leant close to her, his eyes smiling, and at that moment his loosened neckerchief suddenly slipped and they were face to face to face in the darkness. In what light there was, Henrietta looked at him, and in the brief second before he pulled the mask back into place, glimpsed a face that seemed hewn out of granite. She saw a broad, strong nose, a hard mouth, a determined chin and eyes of a deep sea-blue. She looked at his hair and spied, from beneath the black hat, a curl of fiery red. It was the colour of a fox.

  ‘Forget you saw me,’ he said fiercely, ‘do you understand?’

  For the first time Henrietta Trevor felt a tinge of fear. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘I’ll forget.’

  Apparently satisfied, the highwayman turned his attention to the struggling Sarah but it seemed to Henrietta that his manner had changed; that he was anxious to be away now that his disguise had been penetrated.

  ‘Make haste,’ he said abruptly. ‘There can’t be many more bags to fill.’

  ‘There’s only one, Sir.’

  He looked back at Henrietta. ‘Then there is nothing left but to have your jewels.’

  She began to remove them, taking off the necklace and earrings given as a present for her eighteenth birthday, three weeks earlier, by her beautiful widowed mother, Lucy Trevor, all precious heirlooms of the Montague family.

  ‘You seem reluctant,’ he said, as she handed them to him slowly.

  ‘They were a birthday gift from my mother. They have been in her family many years.’

  Henrietta saw the deep eyes look at her gravely before he kissed her hand and gave them back.

  ‘Keep them and remember me.’

  ‘A gentleman robber!’ she said, and dropped a small curtsey.

  ‘No, not that,’ he answered, scooping up the bulging bags and securing them to his saddle. ‘Just as rough as all the others. Now, when I’m gone untie your companions and be on your way. And get the coachman to a surgeon before he loses too much blood.’

  He swung up onto his horse. ‘Farewell Henrietta.’

  ‘Farewell,’ she called, and stood for a second watching the departing figure before she turned back to help the others.

  *

  As was her custom every night of her life, Lucy Baker, eldest surviving daughter of old Squire Baker and, alas, the only spinster female left at home, began her ritual tour of the palace, making her way up the ancient spiral staircase, knowing that as she reached the top the chiming clock in the withdrawing-room would strike ten. This always gave her satisfaction, the very punctuality of her nightly inspection of the household imbuing her with a sense of stability in a world fraught with irritations and tests of patience.

  And tonight was no exception. Lucy stood at the top of the spiral, looking towards what had once been the solar of the archbishops, and heard the gentle chime tell her that the time was near when the whole family would settle down for the night.

  With a small sigh, Lucy swished her hooped dress through the door of the solar and, holding her candle high, stood looking about her. Despite the enormous size of her father’s family — twelve children in all, and seven of them still alive — they had never, even when at full complement, used this room as a bedroom. Lucy’s mother, dead these twenty-six years now, had always said, ‘It was a place where great men sat to think. I do not believe it should be subjected to noisy children,’ and the family had continued this tradition ever since.

  Now it was serene in the darkness and Lucy walked happily through it and out to the small chambers beyond in which the children of the household had always slept. Nowadays, with Charity and Ruth married, and Peter the Vicar of Mayfield and resident in the Middle House, only Thomas and Nizel — Lucy’s bachelor brothers — occupied this west wing of the palace, so that her brother George and his wife Philadelphia had the south wing to themselves.

  Lucy listened for the sound of her brothers but concluded that they must still be downstairs. Yet someone was abed, for as she turned the corner to the south wing a petulant voice called out, ‘Lucy, is that you?’ and, after knocking politely on the door, she went in to her sister-in-law’s apartments to see Philadelphia Baker sitting up in bed, clutching her hand to her breast and saying, wild-eyed, ‘Oh, I cannot sleep for worry. George should have been home hours since. Why, Lucy, he was due to leave London this morning. I am certain that the coach has overturned or been set upon by cut-throats. Oh, oh, my heart is fluttering like a bird.’

  Philadelphia sat up straighter with those words, gasping hard and apparently having to fight for breath. With a shake of her head, Lucy sat down on the bed beside her, gathering her sister-in-law into her arms. ‘Now, now, Delphie dearest,’ she said, ‘there is nothing to worry about. Both George and Sam Briggs are armed. None of them can possibly come to any harm.’

  Two frightened eyes peered at Lucy from behind a cloud of dark hair. ‘But I am worried. Oh Lucy, may I get up and wait downstairs for them? I should so like to.’

  Normally this request from one sister-in-law to another would have seemed odd, but as Philadelphia was only twenty-six years old and a bride of less than a year, while Lucy was forty-six and had acted as the female head of the house ever since her mother’s death, there was nothing strange about it.

  ‘Well, dearest Delphie, if it would make you happy.’

  ‘Oh it would, Lucy, it would. I shall get dressed again so that George will not think me foolish when he comes in.’

  ‘Very well, as long as you don’t become over-tired.’

  Lucy kissed Philadelphia, who was small and childlike and what was known as ‘delicate’, and left the room to continue her tour. Passing her own large bedroom in the east wing, Lucy descended the spiral to the next floor, having now completely walked the square quadrangle around which the palace was built.

  To her left on the floor below was the family withdrawing-room — once the archbishops’ reception room and later the dining-room of both Sir Thomas Gresham and Sir Thomas May. It was Sir Thomas’s son Tom, the celebrated poet and historian, who had sold the palace to Lucy’s grandfather, John Baker the iron master, when Tom’s father had died leaving the estate so impoverished that his son had had no choice but to dispose of it. The Baker family had lived there ever since, needing a place the size of the Archbishops’ Palace to accommodate their vast horde.

  Without entering the withdrawing-room, Lucy went through the door facing her into her favourite part of the building. This was the bedchamber in which the archbishops had slept; in which were the remains of a tiny thirteenth-century praying place supposedly used by Becket; where Queen Elizabeth had slumbered, for which special occasion Sir Thomas Gresham had commissioned a tower containing a staircase to be built so that she might enter it directly from outside.

  The Bakers had always used it as the master bedroom and it was in this room that Lucy’s mother had died giving birth to her twelfth child, Lucy’s younger sister, Ruth. Now old Squire Baker, in his seventy-seventh year and with no sign at all of departing this life, slept there in solitary state.

  As she came through the door, Lucy smiled at the reverberating snores. But the smile had an edge to it. It had not been easy for a girl of eleven to suddenly find herself the eldest surviving female and the one to whom everybody, even her father, suddenly seemed to turn. Nor was it easy to sacrifice everything to bringing up the family, only to see two brothers die early and her two younger sisters marry, leaving her to cope with the old squire, her hearty brother George, silly Philadelphia, languid Thomas, and Nizel, who could not look a woman in the eye without going scarlet.

  Lucy crossed over to the window and, twitching back the curtains, stood looking out. A fitful moon had
just come through the clouds, lighting the palace gardens and, in the distance, the church spire. Lucy stared at the building moodily. What chance had she of ever entering it as a bride? Sadly she turned back to look at the mighty bed which dwarfed the night-capped figure that lay in the centre. Even from this distance her father’s bright red face seemed to glow in the gloom.

  Lucy stared at the floor. If only she could feel genuine love for him instead of resentment that he should go on living, keeping her a prisoner of conscience. If only she were free to leave the palace, to become a wife before it was all too late. If only ...

  A loud noise from the stairs broke her train of thought and she hurried through what had been the archbishop’s private room — now her father’s dressing-room — and through her mother’s saloon, now her own little sanctum, to the broad stone staircase known as the grand staircase, down which some of the most famous feet in the history of the Church had trodden. In the entrance-hall below, Lucy could hear a commotion, generally drowned by Philadelphia’s screams and her brother George’s voice saying, ‘Damned cut-throat took everything. Everything we had on us. The only one to get away with her jewels was Henrietta.’ He cursed, then bellowed, ‘Lucy, Lucy, where are you? We’ve been robbed by a poxy highwayman and Henrietta is in a state of shock. Come along, my dear, there, there! Lucy, where the devil are you?’

  ‘Here, George, here,’ she called, hurrying down the great stone sweep and stopping on the bottom step to take in the scene before her.

  Far from being in a state of shock, Henrietta Trevor, eldest daughter of the late John Morley Trevor, Squire of Glynde, appeared to be the calmest present, other than Sam Briggs the Baker steward, who stood, taciturn as usual, staring at the ceiling and obviously furious that he had not had the opportunity to shoot the highwayman dead. For Miss Trevor stood, with the slightest suggestion of a smile playing about her lips, watching George blustering and Philadelphia having hysterics, and looking scarcely ruffled at all.