by Stella Riley
‘Really? He c-can’t have known that. He wanted another son.’
‘Definitely his loss, then.’
Not sure how to take this, she murmured, ‘I’m sure your family is very different.’
Since this was territory Justin normally placed severely off-limits, he took his time about replying. Finally, he said flatly, ‘I have no family.’
‘Oh.’ This was unexpected. ‘None at all?’
‘No. And, compared to the one I once had, its lack is a vast improvement. So you see … not so very different, after all.’ He smiled again, but differently. ‘And that, Mistress Abigail Radford, is more than anyone else here knows about me.’
~ * ~
TEN
Christmas, the third since the war had begun, came decorously to the town and with inevitable roistering to the Castle. And when it was past and the cold days of December flowed inexorably into the even colder ones of January, Charles Walrond returned from Oxford in possession of the majority that Sir William had requested for Hugh Vaughan. Worse still, he brought news that – a mere month after receiving his knighthood – Colonel Anthony Greene had succumbed to the new fever and been buried on Christmas Eve.
Submerged in gloom and divided by internal bickering, the garrison embarked on a round of ruthless tax-collecting in which the village of Kilsby was dissuaded from a refusal to pay by the taking of hostages and then robbed of sixty horses by way of a lesson. Justin, meanwhile, watched sardonically as the self-styled Walrondians flaunted their yellow ribbons and brawled with the red-tagged Comptonians and wondered if such lessons, like charity, should not begin at home.
Visitors came and went bringing news and gossip. Prince Rupert had made an unsuccessful attempt to re-take Abingdon in which Sir Henry Gage had been mortally wounded – with the result that Colonel Will Legge was now Governor of Oxford in his place. At Westminster, Cromwell’s disgust with Lord Manchester had led him to propose an ordinance forbidding any member of either House to hold military office. If made law, this measure would deprive the army, not just of Manchester and Essex, but also of Cromwell himself; but in practice, said the cynics, it would be easier for Cromwell to resign from the Commons than the two Earls from the Lords. Meanwhile, the peace negotiations in Oxford had ended in stalemate and the Royalist cause in the North was weak unto death. Even Montrose and his mad Irishmen had vanished into the fastness of a Scottish winter.
Amidst the general air of discontent, Captain Ambrose found it increasingly difficult to maintain a sense of proportion and purpose. He also wondered why Mistress Anne Rhodes seemed so interested in him and started to find her determined pursuit irksome – mainly on account of the opportunities it gave Hugh and Ned to make endless jokes at his expense. It didn’t help that she’d been allocated the room on the floor below his own – since it meant he was forever tripping over her on the stairs and being sucked into the kind of conversation that stretched his manners to breaking point. The woman was beautiful and clearly experienced … and, under normal circumstances, he would have accepted the invitation in her eyes without a second thought. But something about her bothered him … something he couldn’t quite identify but which didn’t ring true. So Christmas saw him in a mood of withdrawn sobriety and, for all her charming ploys, he continued to hold Mistress Rhodes politely at arm’s length. Until, in the third week of January, something happened to change his mind.
The day began like any other with the usual round of routine tasks. Then letters bearing the Royal seal arrived from Oxford and a troop of Horse paused for refreshment on its way south from Newark.
The letters concerned promotions and were not unexpected – for Anthony Greene’s death had left a considerable gap in the Castle command. The manner in which this was filled was no surprise either but it was not until he heard his suspicions confirmed that Justin realised he had been indulging in subconscious optimism. Sir William, as was only right, became a Lieutenant-Colonel and Walrond’s vacant Captaincy went to Ned Frost but no new field ranks were created. Even though Justin was aware that Hugh had a better right to disappointment than himself, resentment still cut him like a knife and brought back all his old bitterness against George Digby … that golden, lisping favourite who would be Earl of Bristol one day and thus didn’t need to carve himself a career.
Because Ned and Hugh were his friends, Justin hid his frustration beneath a mask of urbanity. But even the very moderate degree of conviviality in the common-room grated on his nerves and, for the first time in five years, he took refuge in the wine bottle. The only bright spot was that for once Mistress Rhodes didn’t seem to be present.
The Newark men were still there. Aloof and deliberately forbidding, Justin sat in a corner while the evening became one of full-blown surmise and tedious Nottinghamshire anecdote.
‘They say old Templeton is dying,’ a chubby-faced officer remarked. ‘Be a sad loss to the King if it’s true.’
‘Oh?’ asked Captain Vaughan, without a great deal of interest. ‘How is that?’
‘Well, he’s too old to fight so he’s been digging deep in the coffers and sending His Majesty money instead. But all that’ll stop if Bernard French inherits.’
Hugh stifled a yawn. ‘Why? Who’s he?’
‘Templeton’s step-son. There’s a pair of ‘em – each as weasely as the other. Sail-trimmers, both. If you ask me, it’s a pity the old man threw his own son out. Boy was a ne’er-do-well, of course – but that was years ago and they kept the scandal pretty much in the family.’ A grin creased the soft face. ‘And if the fellow’s alive and still a rakehell, so much the better. No chance then of him turning out to be a cursed Roundhead.’
The talk encompassed half a dozen equally scintillating topics before the visitors finally took their leave and, by then, Justin was finishing his second bottle. Ned examined him warily and, perceiving a strange look in the too-steady gaze, said, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Perfectly. And soon I shall be even better,’ replied Justin, rising and reaching for a fresh bottle. ‘I’m merely rediscovering forgotten delights. But fear not – I’ll continue my carouse in genteel solitude. Goodnight, mon capitaine.’
His progress up the stairs was slow but unfaltering and he eventually arrived, without mishap, at the door to his room.
‘Wake up, Rex my boy,’ he said, opening the door. ‘Your master is home, marginally drunk and in need of uncritical —’
He stopped abruptly for the dog was not there. Instead, seated calmly by the hearth amidst glowing tawny skirts, was Mistress Rhodes.
‘Well, well. If it isn’t the sympathetic widow.’
The slate-blue eyes conducted an enigmatic appraisal.
‘I got tired of waiting for an invitation.’
‘So I see.’
‘And finally, tonight, I suspect you may be ready. Are you?’
‘All things are possible.’ He smiled oddly. ‘And who am I to contradict you? Also, if you were sure enough of it to come, why ask me?’
‘Perhaps because I wish you to acknowledge it.’
There was a pause and then he laughed and kicked the door shut with his foot.
‘There, then. Satisfied?’
‘Not yet.’ A tiny smile touched her mouth. ‘But I expect that to change. Are you going to offer me some wine?’
Justin looked at the bottle in his hand as if he could not remember how it had got there. ‘If you wish.’ He crossed to the washstand, picked up a cup and filled it. ‘Tell me something. Why me?’
‘Why not you? I hadn’t expected a man of your reputation to be modest.’
‘And you were right. I’m not.’ He handed her the cup and stood looking down into her face. ‘But you made your interest a little too obvious, a little too soon … which suggests that it isn’t only my body that you want.’
‘You make a lot of assumptions.’
‘So I’m wrong on both counts?’
She shrugged. ‘That remains to be seen. But if it comforts you, I’ll
admit that both your person and your … capabilities … had been described to me.’
‘By whom?’
‘No one, I am sure, that you would recall.’ She sipped her wine and smiled tantalisingly. ‘You ask a lot of questions. Isn’t there anything else you’d rather do?’
‘I’m considering that.’ Justin paused meditatively. ‘Tell me … was there really a husband?’
‘I said so – and who are you to contradict me?’ she quipped. And, when he bowed ironically, ‘Why? Don’t you think I am a lady?’
He looked at her. The magnolia skin was warmed by the light of the fire, the chestnut curls glowed and the tawny gown was designed to make every opulent curve an enticement. A remembered and very different picture invaded his mind; that of a soberly-dressed child with apprehensive dark eyes and a spaniel in her arms. The contrast was stark enough to be comical but he did not laugh. Instead, he looked at the woman on the hearth and said, ‘I know what you are.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You think so?’
‘Oh yes. A lady, my dear, waits to be invited.’ He dropped on one knee beside her, the blurred gaze focusing slowly on her face. ‘You came here because – for reasons of your own, as yet undisclosed - you are determined to share my bed.’
‘You’re very sure of yourself.’
‘More assumptions? I don’t think so.’ He raised a hand and lightly traced the line of her jaw. ‘It’s a pity I dislike being pursued, isn’t it?’
She set down the wine cup and caught his hand in both of hers, a faint flush staining her cheeks.
‘Dislike it? Look at me. You should be flattered.’
‘Why? The shell is undeniably lovely – but what’s inside it?’
Speechless for once, she loosed him and made to rise. His fingers trapped her shoulders, imprisoning her.
‘No, no,’ he soothed, his eyes steel-bright. ‘Don’t be hasty. You came to lick my wounds, remember? To commiserate with me on my misfortunes – the worst of which you know nothing about. But that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.’
She said, ‘You’re drunk.’
‘A fact which you’ve known since I first walked through the door,’ he agreed cheerfully. ‘I am undoubtedly drunk – but not incapable, sweetheart. Far from it. And disinclined, at least for tonight, to turn down the nice gift I’m being offered.’
With benign but discourteous briskness, he slid the gown from her shoulders, leaving her half-naked in his arms, and then began to pull the pins from her hair.
For the first time, a flicker of doubt showed in her eyes.
‘You are ruining my gown. There is no need.’
‘Oh but there is, my angel – there is.’ He filled his hands with the brilliant, auburn hair and drew her to him, still coldly smiling. ‘Why pretend? You have a jaded palate and I am less of a gentleman than you supposed. But cheer up. All is not lost – for I promise that you won’t be disappointed.’ His teeth gleamed savagely white. ‘After all, Madam, I apparently have a reputation to live up to, do I not?’
His mouth came down hard on hers and, pulling her down from stool to rug, his hands finished stripping away the bodice of her gown. As soon as her arms were free, she used one hand to grab a handful of his shirt and the other to take a swing at his face. Her wrist was caught in a vice-like grip and he said, ‘I wouldn’t do that, if I were you. I might retaliate in kind.’
‘You won’t.’
‘Don’t tempt me.’ Justin’s gaze travelled lingeringly over her breasts before returning to her face. Her eyes, he noticed expressed neither outrage nor anger. In fact, they expressed something akin to anticipation. He released her wrist and enclosed her flesh in one calloused palm. ‘Or then again, do. The results could be interesting.’
He kissed her again and she met his mouth with hungry violence for a long moment before attempting to bite his lip. Justin yanked her head back by her hair and said, ‘I’ve no objection to a little carnal violence … but if you want to say no, say it now.’
Anne laughed, tore his shirt away from his chest and raked her nails across his skin, leaving a bloody trail.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ she breathed, pulling him hard against her so that her teeth grazed his shoulder. ‘You know what I want. You said you’re not incapable – so prove it.’
*
Ten days later, riding westwards through the darkness at the head of his troop of Horse, Justin drew a long breath and silently thanked God for a little action away from the stifling atmosphere of Banbury.
‘Heartfelt,’ commended Will Compton, grinning. ‘It must be exhausting to be so sought after – not to mention that the lady obviously plays rough.’
Garrison life was not fashioned for the keeping of secrets. Everyone knew that Anne Rhodes had spent a night in Captain Ambrose’s room and that the Captain had appeared next day with scratches on his face and hands that he refused to discuss. More intriguing still, everyone also knew that the lady clearly both wanted and expected that one night to mark the beginning of something more permanent; and when it became plain to her that the Captain had no intention of indulging this wish, her attitude towards him had undergone a radical transformation.
Justin smiled grimly, reflecting that the marks they could see were nothing compared to the ones they couldn’t.
‘You might say so. And next time I’m seen to be moving past the first bottle, I hope someone will knock me over the head for my own good.’
Will’s brows rose but, before he could reply, his elder brother Charles rode up from the ranks and said quietly, ‘We’re nearing Epwell. Best go on with caution. Don’t want to stir up any fuss.’
‘No, General,’ mocked Will. ‘What’s the matter, Charlie? Do you think I don’t know this road?’
‘Fool,’ replied Sir Charles, good-humouredly. ‘I was thinking about billets.’
‘Weren’t we all?’ sighed his brother. ‘Especially the no doubt cosy ones occupied this night by James and Spencer while you and I are out in the cold trying to regain the family roof-tree. Ah well … it’s all in a night’s work, as they say – and Mother will be pleased. I take it you want to go in from the north-west over old Thompson’s five-acre field?’
‘Yes. And quietly.’
Compton Wynyates, childhood home of Will and principal seat of his brother, James, Earl of Northampton, had been in Parliamentarian hands for several months. Tonight, Wednesday January 29th, Will and Charles hoped to re-possess it. Because many of the three hundred Horse and Foot they brought with them were of Lord Northampton’s own regiment, the entire expedition had the flavour of an antique family feud. Feeling rather like a Capulet bearing down on the house of Montague, Justin discovered the first impulse to laugh he had felt in some time and began to recover his spirits.
They arrived at their goal around two in the morning and, not unnaturally, surprise did the first part of their work for them. With text-book precision, they overpowered the guards and occupied first the Barbican and then the stable-block - from which they prudently removed some seventy horses. By then the Roundhead garrison was not merely awake but managing to conduct a remarkably orderly defence and any further chance of an easy victory had flown.
Left with fifty troopers to hold the stables while the rest of the force moved on to the house, Justin took every measure available to him. He posted marksmen at all the windows, both upstairs and down; he sealed all the entrances with bar and bolt; he set men heaping all the bales of fodder well away from the doors. It was not his fault that there was just too much of it … or that the main attack failed as quickly as it did … or even that the stable-block was composed almost wholly of wood.
The first fire-arrows came almost immediately, aimed at the roof … and then the night was alive with swift, flaming arcs of light that bit into doors and tore expertly through windows. As fast as his marksmen brought down one bowman, another replaced him while, inside, small fires were springing up everywhere.
‘Stamp out what you can,’ shouted
Justin. ‘For the rest, dip your cloaks in the water-butts and use them.’
It was hopeless and he knew it. The floor was strewn with dried rushes and there were bales of straw everywhere, piled high against the walls. Enough winter feed for an entire cavalry regiment or to turn the place into a pyre that would not be quenched by even twenty times the water they had.
The rushes caught first and then a tight stack of bales in the gallery. Justin took the stairs three at a time, clutching his dripping cloak and brought it swirling down in a vain attempt to smother the blaze before it took hold. Below him, tongues of flame licked slyly up one of the main timber supports. He roared an order and saw men leap to obey it while others rushed to help him with the straw.
Coughing, Justin tried to assess their situation. Flickering red and already out of control, the fires began to spread and merge while, outside, the enemy closed in around them. He had lost nine men at the windows and three more were suffering from burns. There were two exits on the ground floor and one via an outside stair from the gallery – useless because of its narrowness and lack of cover. The thought took his eyes upwards in time to see five men rushing towards the upper floor.
‘No, you fools – stop!’
Too late. The door was flung back and a draught of air fanned the flames at the end of the gallery into a shimmering orange sheet which engulfed the man nearest to it. He screamed and hurled himself back, hair and clothes alight, to plummet down over the rail while, above, the five fled on to the outer stair. Over the crackling of the fire came confused shouting and cries of ‘Quarter!’ There was the rattle of musket-fire and the fifth man reappeared in the doorway to collapse in grotesque surprise, blood pumping from his open mouth.
‘Shut that door and get down here, all of you,’ yelled Justin. ‘Drench yourselves as best you can – hair, clothes, everything – then listen.’
Choking, they did as he asked. And when they were with him, he said rapidly, ‘You saw what just happened. They’re not going to let us surrender and if we stay here, we fry. So I suggest we go out and make a fight of it.’