by Stella Riley
By the time a full week had elapsed and Tuesday had come again, she felt that she had been to hell and back but she had not forgotten her afternoon appointment at Bridge Bar and, expressing the intention of resting quietly in her room, she slipped calmly out of the house to keep it. He would not be there, of course – she realised that. Sam had told her all about his early morning visits to the Castle, the second of which had seen him finally hand over the letter to Captain Ambrose. But none of it, not even the fact that Mistress Rhodes had tried to kill her, seemed to matter very much to Abigail. The only thing that did matter was that if the Captain knew her to be ill, he would not come to meet her. And that would be the last, dreary straw.
By the time the bridge was in sight, she had other things to worry about; the question, for example, of whether she could get that far without making a fool of herself by collapsing in the street. In the dubious belief that concentration could avert this disaster, she began counting her steps. She was still counting them when she arrived at the place where Justin had tethered his horse.
He had been sitting with his back against a tree, wondering why he had been fool enough to come. And then she was before him and shock brought him sharply to his feet.
‘Oh Christ,’ he breathed, staring at her transparent, fine-drawn pallor and the still dilated dark eyes. Then, quietly, ‘Abby? You ought to be in bed.’
‘Two hundred and forty-seven,’ said Abigail, frowning a little. ‘Two hundred and – and —’
In three strides he was beside her, scooping her up into his arms. Then, after glancing round with a sort of furious helplessness, he carried her deeper into the copse and laid her carefully on the grass.
‘Captain Ambrose?’ she said uncertainly.
‘Yes.’ Anxiety made him abrupt.
She sighed. ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’
‘Since you were stupid enough to do so, it’s just as well that I did, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ The blurred gaze focused slowly on his face. ‘You sound angry. Are you?’
‘Yes.’ With myself for the insane piece of mischief that brought you here; with your family for letting you out; with a God who leaves defenceless things like you to fend for themselves. ‘Yes. Very angry. But not with you. Come, sit up a little. You’re still having trouble breathing, aren’t you?’
‘Sometimes.’ She let him raise her up and found herself comfortably installed against his shoulder. ‘I’m glad you came. Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘It seems we’re forever fated to meet under less than ideal circumstances, doesn’t it? I wonder what it will be next?’
‘Don’t.’ She shivered. ‘Sam says he’s given you the letter.’
‘Yes. Purely because of what happened to you.’
‘I know. Poor Sam.’ Her head drooped against his chest. ‘If there is a trial, will he have to give evidence?’
‘Hopefully, not. I laid the facts before the Governor and he’s grateful enough to leave Sam out of it, if at all possible.’
He fell silent, bitterly contemplating the other things he’d had to say to Will, things he had not spoken of in ten years … except once, in a very different moment of discovery, to Rupert.
Explanations and excuses had never come easily to him and he hated making them; but not nearly as much as he had hated having to ask Will’s connivance in a furtive and probably useless attempt to restrict, as far as was possible, the knowledge that Captain Ambrose and the eighth Lord Templeton were one and the same. Stirring restlessly, he gazed down at the top of Abigail’s head. It could have been worse. Will had been surprised – as well he might be – but his innate good manners had prevented him enquiring too closely into the reasons for such secrecy. And that had been just as well, reflected Justin, for there were days when he could not explain them to himself.
‘I’m sorry,’ murmured Abigail drowsily. ‘I’m not being much of a companion, am I?’
‘No. But the same could be said of me. And, by rights, you shouldn’t be here. I ought to take you home. What the devil were Sam and your mother about to let you out in this state?’
‘They don’t know. And I was quite well when I left.’ She tilted her head to look up at him. ‘Let me stay a little longer. It’s so pleasant here and I feel much better now. Tell me about Mistress Rhodes.’
‘There’s nothing to tell. She’s safely under lock and key, awaiting her trial with well-concealed impatience.’
‘What will happen to her?’
‘If she’s found guilty of espionage and murder – and, with the evidence of the letter and her own confession, it’s hard to see how she wouldn’t be – they’ll execute her.’
‘Sam said it was you who made her write the confession.’
A faint, grim smiled touched his mouth. ‘Yes.’
‘She … I don’t suppose she did it willingly.’
‘She didn’t. Suffice it to say that I was forced to be a little rough with her.’
Abigail’s eyes widened. ‘Oh.’
‘Does that surprise you? She’d murdered Tom and tried to murder you – so it had to be done. And there was no way it was ever going to be civilised.’
‘I see that. But it must … I imagine it must have been difficult for you.’ She paused, searching for the right words and not finding them. ‘From something you once said, I gathered that you – that you and she were —’
‘Lovers?’ said Justin helpfully. ‘Not exactly.’
He realised that the simplest course at this point was just to let it lie; but, for reasons he didn’t trouble to analyse, he found he didn’t want Abigail to go away with the idea that he’d had an on-going, intimate relationship with Hannah Rhodes. The difficulty was in how to explain it. He couldn’t say he’d slept with her or taken her to his bed or made love to her because none of those things were true. Equally, he could hardly tell Abby that he’d had the bitch on the floor whilst trying to stop her gouging lumps out of his flesh with her teeth and nails. It had been ugly and sordid and had left him feeling degraded.
‘It was just once,’ he said curtly. ‘I was angry and drunk and she offered herself to me on a plate and so I let those things over-ride my better judgement. I’m not proud of it. But I made sure it never happened again.’
‘Oh,’ said Abigail again, somewhat feebly. ‘I see.’
‘Good. As for manhandling her to extract that confession … I’ve done worse things,’ he shrugged. And then, reading her face, ‘I’m a professional soldier, Abby. When something needs to be done, I do it.’
‘Always?’
‘Yes. There’s nothing romantic about war and no room for sentiment or an over-developed degree of fastidiousness – not if you want to stay alive.’ Against all reason, he was irritated. ‘Or did you think we were all epic heroes, galloping off to immortal glory?’
Stung by his tone, Abigail sat up and turned away a little.
‘Of course not. I hate the war and everything it stands for.’
‘I wish I could say the same. Unfortunately, it’s my living.’
‘You were a soldier before the war started?’
‘Yes. And will continue to be one when it’s finished. There’s always a war somewhere and the higher the rank I can achieve in this one, the higher pay I can command for my services in the next. The Galahads of the army,’ he added trenchantly, ‘don’t make very good officers. A leader who lets his emotions rule him has a nasty tendency of getting his men killed.’ He stopped on a sudden indrawn breath and then added, sarcastically, ‘Hoist with my own petard, as they say. Don’t you want to point out that it serves me right?’
‘No,’ said Abigail flatly. ‘I want to go home.’
‘To mother?’
‘No. To Jonas. I know where I am with him.’
A long silence followed this observation. Finally Justin said, ‘I’m sorry. Self-indulgent histrionics. Again. I’d better take you home.’
‘I don’t need you to take
me. I can go myself.’
‘Don’t be a fool. You’re as weak as a kitten and so bloody thin that a moderate wind would blow you away.’ A tiny, strangled sound escaped her and he said, ‘Oh God! You’re not crying, are you?’
‘No!’ Abigail repudiated this suggestion with every sign of loathing and hunted frantically for her handkerchief.
‘Liar.’ Justin produced his own and tossed it into her lap. ‘Here – use this.’
‘Thank you.’ She buried her face in the snowy folds as the involuntary sobs came harder and faster. ‘I’m sorry. I never cry. It’s only – it’s only —’
‘Because you’ve been ill. Yes, I know.’ His voice held wry amusement mingled with concern. ‘Don’t cry. Tell me I’m a thoughtless bastard, if you like – but don’t cry. I’m not used to it. The ladies of my acquaintance are more inclined to throw things.’
‘I don’t blame them,’ wept Abigail. ‘And if you dare to laugh —’
‘Hush. I’m not laughing.’ Reaching out, he drew her firmly back into his arms and simply held her until the sobs lessened and died. Then, ‘I’ve no business asking and certainly don’t deserve that you should say yes … but will you come again next week if I promise to be on my best behaviour?’
‘You promised that before – and look at the result.’
‘Very true,’ agreed Justin on a quiver of laughter. ‘I apologise unreservedly. Will you give me the chance to prove I can do better?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can. Same time, same place?’
‘No. It’s all wrong and if someone sees us and tells Jonas —’
‘Oh – Jonas.’ Justin snapped dismissive fingers. ‘I’ve quite lost my faith in him since Sam told me how frightened he is of infection. I thought he was the trustin-the-Lord type.’
‘He is.’ Abigail lifted her face and a watery smile dawned. ‘He is. But he likes to tie up his camel as well.’
~ * ~
SIXTEEN
While John Lilburne expertly aggravated the differences between the Presbyterian and Independent factions in Parliament, Lord Digby continued to enrage Prince Rupert by blaming him for the disaster of Naseby whilst simultaneously claiming it to be no great loss. Help, he said airily, would come from Lord Ormonde in Ireland or Montrose in Scotland – or both. And Rupert, watching his uncle believing it because he wished to believe it, promptly lost his temper. There would be no troops from Ireland, he shouted; and, as for Montrose, he hadn’t enough men to hold the places he took in Scotland.
But Charles refused to be disheartened. His cause was just; the Parliament, itself divided, was again quarrelling with the Scots; and Montrose’s star was still firmly in the ascendant. There was no reason for despair and Rupert’s gloom was displeasing to him. Rupert, he therefore intimated gently, had best take his pessimistic presence elsewhere.
Fuming, Rupert did so. While the King moved on to Raglan Castle to play bowls, he joined the Prince of Wales at Barnstaple and then, reluctantly leaving Somerset in the frequently inebriated hands of George Goring, took himself off to the vital task of holding Bristol. Within the week his trust was proved misplaced. Goring was defeated by the New Model at Langport and then abandoned Bridgewater to its fate so that it, too, fell. Rupert cursed him with versatile ferocity and then threw himself into preparations to strengthen Bristol – lifeline of the Royalist cause and their only gateway to the outside world.
News of the battle of Langport arrived in Banbury on the day appointed for the trial of Hannah Rhodes. Out of consideration for Justin, Will Compton had decided that the business should be dealt with quietly in his own quarters. Only those officers holding the rank of Captain or above were bidden attend and the proceedings, though formal, were kept as brief as possible.
Mistress Rhodes, still beautiful despite her two-week incarceration, faced her accusers with defiant splendour. They had dissected the evidence against her with frightening efficiency and all her ploys had failed. Sir William had refused to barter freedom for information and her jailers, carefully chosen from amongst Tom Mayhew’s friends, had declined even to speak to her outside the line of duty. All that remained was to publicly revoke her confession whilst casting doubt on Justin Ambrose’s motives and methods – and this she now fully intended to do.
Sir William, aware of her design, was ready and the moment she launched into her denunciation of Justin, he said, ‘I am aware of these facts, Mistress, and do not find them related to the matter in hand. As for your confession, we are all agreed that it shows no sign of having been written under the violent circumstances you describe – and are therefore satisfied that it is valid.’
‘Valid? It’s no more valid than if I’d been put on the rack! Less, in fact – because apart from my own, the only signature it bears is that of a man who doesn’t exist. There is no Justin Ambrose – only Lord Templeton!’
A silence that was part baffled, part stunned greeted this triumphant declaration. To some, like Ned Frost, it meant nothing at all … but in Hugh Vaughan and one or two others, it struck a chord of shocked fascination. Will Compton glanced enquiringly at Justin and waited, as they were all doing, for him to speak.
A mocking smile touching the corners of his mouth, Justin rose and looked unhurriedly at the faces about him. Then, turning to Hannah Rhodes, he said clearly, ‘You are mistaken. Justin Ambrose not only exists but is standing before you.’
‘It’s a lie!’ she shouted, her eyes brilliant.
‘No. I was baptised Justin Ambrose Templeton – Ambrose being my mother’s maiden name. I shed my father’s name ten years ago and have had neither need nor wish to resume it since then. But if it will simplify matters, I am willing to add it to the document in question here and now before you all.’
‘You bastard,’ said Hannah. ‘You bloody, stinking bastard.’
Ignoring her, Sir William looked round at his officers.
‘Well, gentlemen? Are you satisfied with the signature as it stands or do you wish Captain Ambrose to add to it?’
There was another pause. Then Hugh Vaughan rose and said evenly, ‘Unless anyone objects, I would suggest that we leave that decision up to you, sir. Speaking for myself, I am content to let the matter rest.’
There was a murmur of agreement and Will inclined his head courteously.
‘So be it, then. The document shall stay as it is and I am sure Captain Ambrose will be as grateful for that as he will be of your future discretion.’
‘God,’ thought Hugh, startled. ‘So we’re not even to speak of it?’
‘This isn’t a trial,’ cried Hannah contemptuously. ‘It’s puppet-show with that perverted madman pulling the strings.’
‘You are being tried in accordance with the rules of war,’ said Sir William coldly. ‘The matter of the confession is a trivial one for it tells us nothing we cannot substantiate from other sources – such as the nostrums in your bedchamber which included enough poison to wipe out the entire garrison and the letter in your own hand informing Sir Samuel Luke of our stores, defences and strength. It is my duty to inform you that, having examined these things most carefully in your presence here today, I find the conclusions inescapable. But any of these gentlemen are entitled to disagree with me. If you have anything to say in extenuation or any new facts to lay before us, I can truthfully promise you a fair hearing. You may now speak in your defence.’
Hannah spoke at some length but very little of what she said was any form of defence. She railed against Will Compton and at Samuel and Abigail Radford; she prophesied doom for the Royalist cause in general and dire reprisals on the Banbury garrison in particular if they dared touch her; and she spat every venomous curse she knew at Captain Ambrose.
Sir William sat patiently until her tirade exhausted itself and then, rising, he asked his officers if they had any further questions or wanted time in which to discuss their verdict. One by one, they shook their heads.
‘Very well. Then rise in turn and declare your fin
dings to that the accused may hear.’
‘Guilty,’ said Major Walrond.
‘Guilty,’ echoed Hugh Vaughan.
‘Guilty,’ repeated five other voices, consecutively.
‘Guilty,’ said Justin, his expressionless gaze resting squarely on Hannah’s face.
The room seemed suddenly hot and airless. With measured deliberation, Sir William said, ‘Hannah Rhodes, you stand convicted of treacherous dealings with the enemy and the foul murder of one of His Majesty’s loyal subjects – the penalty for both of which is death. I therefore sentence you to be hanged by the neck on the public gallows of this town – and may God have mercy upon you.’
‘No!’ The lovely face was wildly contorted. ‘No!’
Will faced his officers.
‘Sentence to be carried out six days from today, on Wednesday July 23rd at noon. Thank you gentlemen. You may now return to your duties.’
*
Abigail sat on the grass and watched the shifting pattern of dappled sunlight move over the tailored planes and angles of Captain Ambrose’s face. It was the Tuesday of their second meeting and she had discovered that being wicked didn’t feel nearly as dreadful as she had always supposed. Instead of feelings of anxiety and guilt, she was filled with a sensation of exquisite awareness and boundless content. She did not care that the Captain didn’t speak. It did not even matter if he had fallen asleep – for that only proved that he too was at peace. His hat and coat adorned a nearby bush, his sword lay on the ground nearby and, relaxed and apparently oblivious, he himself lay full length on the turf with his hands clasped behind his head and his eyes closed.
‘You’re very quiet,’ he said lazily. ‘Nothing to say?’
She smiled. ‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘Not at all.’ He opened one eye. ‘I’m not so rude … and didn’t I promise you my best behaviour?’
‘Yes. You did. And I’m looking forward to seeing it.’
‘Little cat.’ The other eye opened and he grinned at her. ‘I suppose that means you’re waiting to be entertained. Unfortunately, such skills as I possess aren’t likely to amuse you. I’ve no liking for poetry and therefore no memory for it. And you don’t want to hear me sing.’