by Stella Riley
Samuel smiled innocently into the eyes of his foe.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Rachel. Are we talking of Abby or of Ruth? It it’s Abby, I don’t think she has any shortcomings; and if you mean Ruth – I wouldn’t waste the effort. As far as I’m concerned, her husband is welcome to her. I just hope he’s Perseverance by nature as well as by name.’
Alice gave a small, inarticulate moan and abandoned all attempt to finish her food.
‘That’s enough!’ snapped Jonas, flushing with indignation. ‘I will not have such unseemly talk at my board – nor such flippant insolence to my wife. Since you can say nothing that is fit to be heard, you will withdraw to your room and study the Twenty-fifth Psalm. You may return at evening prayers and recite it for us.’
‘Jonas, please!’ said Alice. ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm.’
‘I beg your pardon, Mother – but you really must allow me to deal with these matters as I see fit. Samuel lacks humility and his heart is clouded with false values which he must learn to root out and destroy lest they lead him to eternal damnation.’
Samuel slid off the bench and came to his feet.
‘Don’t worry, Mother. It’s all in a good cause and, as Jonas will no doubt agree, nothing is ever achieved without suffering.’ And he limped out of the room.
Abigail swallowed and continued, steadfastly, to regard her plate. Sam was good and kind but he’d sacrificed himself to no avail for Rachel was not a person to accept failure meekly. She would return again and again to the attack until she found her mark.
As it turned out, she was not granted the opportunity for Jonas once more took up the theme of God’s grace and favour to the just cause of the Parliament and His obvious displeasure in that of the King. Abigail did not know if Jonas was right or merely optimistic but, for the first time that she could remember, she was grateful both for his eloquence and for the wifely submissiveness that prevented Rachel from interrupting it.
At nine o’clock precisely, Betty the maid came in from the kitchen and Sam from upstairs to join in the customary evening prayers. These were longer than usual for Jonas indulged his talent for lay-preaching and began with a fiery sermon on the omnipotent justice of the Lord.
‘For on those who turn not from the crooked path and compound their sins daily without repentance,’ he enthused, ‘the wrath of the Almighty shall fall without mercy. To Him are the secrets of all hearts made open and happy are they that deserve His charity. But the unworthy, the wanton and the deceitful shall surely perish in their woe.’
Uncomfortably conscious both of her secretive deceit and her unshakeable determination to compound it, Abigail flushed uneasily. The wrath of God would be nothing compared to the wrath of Jonas if he found out that she had been consorting, however unwillingly, with a member of the Royalist garrison. Even her mother would probably be shocked and Rachel … Rachel would make her life unbearable for weeks. The only person she might possibly tell was Sam – and there seemed little point in that. The best course was surely to forget it ever happened and pray earnestly that nothing of the kind occurred again.
Head bent, she listened to Samuel repeating his psalm. And when it ended and Jonas finally dismissed them, she went thankfully upstairs to the sanctuary of her bedchamber.
*
Five days later, Captain Ambrose walked into the shop.
It was early and, under Rachel’s critical eye, Abigail was still engaged in polishing the wide trestle that Jonas used for cutting the cloth. Neither of them expected custom at such an hour and so, when the door opened, both turned in quick surprise. Rachel’s habitually chilly expression hardened and Abigail took three steps backwards into the nearest dark corner.
‘Good morning,’ said the Captain.
His tone was bland but the sardonic glint in his eye did not live up to it and neither, observed Abigail, did the exaggerated courtesy of his bow. She watched the beautiful white plume of his hat brush the floor and decided that it was just as well that she had given the shop a thorough sweeping.
The silvery-grey gaze continued to regard Rachel.
‘It’s a fine morning, isn’t it?’
‘Very,’ agreed Rachel, according him a curt nod of acknowledgement. ‘Is there something I may do for you, Captain?’
‘Why yes, Mistress Radford,’ came the gentle reply. ‘You may summon your husband.’
Rachel’s mouth tightened still further.
‘I don’t know that he can see you now.’
‘Then perhaps you had best find out.’
‘You don’t seem to understand, Captain. My husband —’
‘Is a very busy man. Yes. I know. So am I, as it happens. That is why I took the precaution of calling early, before he is forced to go out. I hope, however, that I am not too early?’ The brisk voice became tinged with malicious shock. ‘Never say he is still abed!’
‘Certainly not!’ snapped Rachel. ‘But he has a good deal of urgent paperwork to do and then a meeting of the Common Council to attend —’
‘Then I’ll wait,’ announced the Captain, cheerfully. He sat down on a stool. ‘I’m sure your lady customers will find me invaluable when they come to choose their lace.’
Rachel recognised the implied threat and her colour rose, yet still she hesitated before accepting defeat. Finally, she said, ‘Abigail. Go and fetch Jonas.’
Abigail started violently and saw the strangely light eyes turn to look across at her. She froze and then recognised, with a completely illogical lack of pleasure, that they were utterly indifferent. As she had suspected, Captain Ambrose had no recollection of ever having seen her before and was almost certainly not really seeing her now.
‘Abigail! Are you going to stand there all day?’ Rachel’s voice could have cut bread.
‘No. I’m sorry.’ Abigail turned quickly and therefore missed the sudden flicker of alertness in the Captain’s face. ‘I’ll go now.’
‘That,’ said Rachel, sarcastically, ‘would be a great help. You did say now?’
Abigail blushed and fled.
Jonas did not know if he was irritated or relieved to hear that Captain Ambrose awaited him in the shop. He hated the garrison and everything it represented but a review of the last quarter’s figures had revealed a far from satisfactory state of affairs and he was regrettably aware of needing the Captain’s business. This, however, did not cause him to greet that gentleman with any degree of cordiality and, as soon as Rachel vanished into the house, he said frigidly, ‘I begin to find your persistence annoying, sir.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you do,’ agreed the Captain. ‘But the remedy is in your own hands, you know. And you won’t be the first in this town to sacrifice your principles in exchange for hard cash.’
Jonas’ gaze sharpened.
‘Is that how you would pay? No promissory notes?’
‘No. We have the money. What we don’t have is endless time to discuss the matter. If the men are to have decent coats this winter, we need the cloth – and sooner rather than later, so that it can be made up.’ Captain Ambrose came to his feet and smiled coolly. ‘If you won’t supply it, I’ll have to apply to Oxford. Your choice … but if you can’t make it, then I must. Well?’
Jonas stared at the worldly elegance before him and longed for the personal and political satisfaction of refusing … but with the townsfolk spending as cautiously as they had been since the war began, he needed the extra trade and needed it badly. Bitter rage burned in his breast and his frustration channelled itself into hatred for the man in front of him.
‘Very well. Broadcloth or worsted?’
The Captain expressed a preference for broadcloth. Jonas named his price and the Captain laughed.
‘Oh no, Mr Radford. I realise that the damage done to your finer feelings will require compensation – but I’m not willing to be robbed. Try again.’
‘Robbed?’ echoed Jonas, incensed. ‘Why, you Godless son of Apollyon, do you think I can’t guess where you get
the ‘hard cash’ you boast of?’
‘On the contrary, I’m very sure that you can. But I am equally sure that you will find our transaction significantly less painful if you avoid thinking of it.’
Jonas’ answer was a diatribe against Cavalier lawlessness and vice. Captain Ambrose listened unmoved until he paused for breath and then said, ‘This is war, Mr Radford. The rebels – I beg your pardon! – the Parliament attacks our convoys and we theirs. It is unfortunate but necessary. I doubt any of us takes any pleasure in it.’
‘Pleasure is all you and your kind ever think about!’ spat Jonas. ‘Is nothing safe from your accursed levity? You profane our town with your very presence, corrupt our young people with your vile example and slander our honesty whilst shamelessly admitting your own villainy. But God sees all and is not deceived. And you might remember that, if war makes thieves —’
‘Peace hangs them. Quite.’ Bored grey eyes met smouldering black ones. ‘But I’m not here to justify either myself or my cause – and I don’t have all day to waste while you preach. Fifteen shillings the yard and not a farthing more.’
On the other side of the door, Abigail drew a long, appreciative breath and turned an awed gaze on Samuel.
‘Aren’t you glad I brought you down?’
‘Yes.’ Samuel paused, listening to the bartering taking place in the shop and grinned slowly. ‘Where did you meet him?’
She gasped. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh come on. I know you and you’re a terrible liar. Where did you meet him?’
Abigail sighed. ‘Pebble Lane.’ And she favoured him with a brief, whispered résumé.
When she had finished, Samuel expelled a long breath and said, ‘I’ll bet you were scared when he walked into the shop. Did he say anything?’
‘No. He didn’t even recognise me.’
He fixed her with a shrewd stare.
‘Did you want him to?’
‘Of course not!’ Abigail fidgeted with her cuffs. ‘I was extremely relieved that he didn’t.’
‘Yes. You sound it.’
‘I was!’ she protested. Then, with a faint reluctant smile, ‘All right. Perhaps, not entirely. It’s silly, I know, but I’ve suddenly realised that I’m eighteen years old and as memorable as a glass of water. I don’t much like it.’
‘No. Who would?’ Samuel folded his arms and appraised her thoughtfully. ‘You’re exaggerating, of course. But if you really want to make the Captain notice you —’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘— or anyone else for that matter,’ he continued placidly, ‘there’s a perfectly simple way to do it. If, of course, you’re interested.’
Abigail hesitated and then jettisoned her pride.
‘I’m interested. What is it?’
‘Smile. You’d be surprised how much it improves you. And so, I daresay, would Captain Ambrose – who has just, in case you didn’t hear, nailed Jonas down to fifteen shillings and sixpence the yard.’
~ * ~
THREE
It was one of those typically English days of mingled sunshine and showers and everyone was both damp and irritable. Captain Ambrose sent out his third scouting party of the morning and prowled restlessly along the hedgerows where the Foot lay in sulky concealment, checking that none of them had seen fit to alter their dispositions. None of them had, of course. They knew better. The Captain nodded curtly, reminded them to keep their powder dry and stalked back to where Lieutenant Frost had managed to find shelter half-way up a tree.
Fair haired, blue eyed and invariably light-hearted, the Lieutenant was the younger son of a respected Warwickshire family of genuine but largely cautious loyalty. Ned, however, was too young and much too insouciant for caution. Just now, he looked down with tolerant amusement on Captain Ambrose and said, ‘Sit down, you impatient devil! You’re wearing yourself out and making the men jumpy – and they’ll not come any the quicker for it.’
‘I know.’ Justin’s eyes dwelt thoughtfully on his friend’s sprawling figure. ‘But one of us has to set an example.’
Ned grinned. ‘You’re just jealous of my new sash – made, I’ll have you know, by my Lucy’s own fair hands and the exact colour of her bright eyes.’
‘And bestowed,’ mocked Justin, ‘on a hero who lurks up trees.’
‘So? I’m dry and moderately comfortable – though a cushion wouldn’t go amiss. And, since you only get to be a hero when you’re dead, it’s not a distinction I’ve any ambition for.’
‘Rupert isn’t dead.’
‘The exception that proves the rule. We can’t all be disinherited young princes with romantic pasts. And if someone pointed a loaded pistol in my face or yours, you can be certain that the damned thing would go off perfectly. They only misfire when it’s a Wizard Prince with the luck of the devil.’
‘He wasn’t very lucky at Marston Moor.’
‘He was outnumbered two to one. What do you expect? No one can win all the time – and he’ll soon get his reputation back.’
Justin’s eyes grew hard.
‘He won’t if that bastard Digby has anything to do with it.’
‘Oh – a pox on Digby! I’ll tell you what – you’re becoming obsessed with him and he’s not worth the trouble. All right. He got you sent here more or less out of spite and you don’t like it much; but there are worse places to be, you know – and, for all it’s damned dull, it still has to be done. You’re not the only trained field officer to be tied to a garrison – and if you really want to get back into the war, why don’t you write to Rupert? He’s still recruiting up North and doubtless he’d be delighted to have you back.’
‘No.’
‘But —’
‘No!’ A sudden spurt of temper flared in Justin’s face. Not even to Ned would he explain that pride kept him from asking; that and the fact that he knew only too well the plague of letters that tormented Rupert at every turn. ‘I take your point. I’m here to do a job and I’ll do it – so, for the time being, Digby can go hang. But one day I swear I’ll —’
‘Captain Ambrose! They’re coming, sir.’
Justin swung round to face his returned scout.
‘How far?’
‘Just over a mile, sir. Six heavy carts, about fifty Horse and a handful of dragoons.’
‘Good.’ His mood lightening at the prospect of action, Justin smiled suddenly. ‘Get yourself up to my troop in the wood over there and tell Lieutenant Pulteney to have the men mounted and ready. I’ll be along in a minute. And now,’ he added, turning back to Lieutenant Frost, ‘perhaps Zacchaeus will come down and see to the Foot?’
‘Who the devil’s Zacchaeus?’ Ned was already half-way to the ground. ‘Sounds like some canting Puritan.’
‘Quite – and an indication of the company I’ve been keeping lately. You know what to do?’
‘Yes,’ replied Ned laconically. ‘Stock Plan A. My villains could do it in their sleep.’
‘So could mine.’ Justin untethered his horse and came lightly to the saddle. ‘Worrying, isn’t it? By the time this war is over, the country will be awash with fully-trained professional footpads.’
With the wait almost over, the men forgot their damp clothes and cramped muscles and began to regain their normal ebullience. It was a Parliamentary convoy of powder and ammunition, passing from Brackley to Gloucester – and who better to intercept it than the stout lads of the Banbury garrison? They had a reputation as far afield as Westminster for supplying the Royalist capital of Oxford with anything and everything that came their way. And they were proud of it.
The routine ambush was a simple affair that made use of the ample, natural cover between Banbury and the village of Middleton Cheney and relied largely on shock tactics. The only vital ingredient was a sense of timing and Justin knew that Ned’s was as good as his own. Lieutenant Frost might be essentially frivolous and talk for the sake of talking but he was also a first-class infantry officer who could be relied on to do his job pr
operly.
From the edge of the copse where his troop waited, silent and motionless, behind him, Justin watched the convoy weave into sight and progress slowly into the net. The sun was out again, glancing fitfully off helmets and breast-plates. Only fifty Horse – but well-armed and well-mounted. The train was squeezed out by the narrowness of the road into a long ribbon of colour and jingling harness … but they had anticipated that and Ned’s men were spread well back.
Watching the column advance between the innocent-looking green hedges, Justin felt the stirrings of familiar, tense excitement. Only a few more yards and Ned could close in behind them. He unsheathed his sword and raised it in signal to his own troop … almost there … now! And, delaying only for the fraction of a second it took to see the Foot warm noisily out of their ditches, he brought down his hand and, with a cry of ‘For the King!’ led his men out into the open.
Blades flashing in the light, they formed a close-packed charge to thunder down across the open country and smash into the startled mêlée of rebel horse on the road. It broke before them but that was not enough. Away to his right, Justin saw that Ned had accounted for the rear-guard of dragoons and was reforming his division, musketeers behind pikemen, at either end of the cart-train. Meanwhile, the Parliamentary Captain was struggling to re-group his force and it was no part of Justin’s plan to let him. Summoning his own men to follow, Justin set his horse at the hedge and over they all went, dividing neatly on his shouted command into twin wings that wheeled and converged on the enemy.
A bullet tore its way through Justin’s sleeve, scorching his arm – and then the time for firearms was past and the smoke-filled air rang with the clamour of hand-to-hand combat. For ten brief minutes, he was restored to his natural element … and then it was over. The rebels fled in disorder, leaving some twenty of their number dead or wounded on the field and, after speeding them on their way with a little desultory pursuit, Justin returned to find Ned in secure possession of the carts. The whole operation had taken less than half an hour and they had lost only two men.