A Splendid Defiance

by Stella Riley

  ‘I don’t?’

  ‘No – you really don’t. Trust me on that. I could teach you a reel – except that the ground’s so uneven we’d probably end up in a heap on it.’ He paused, propping himself on one elbow. ‘I can shoot fairly straight and my swordplay is considered a little above the average; I can dismantle and re-assemble any piece of artillery you wish to name; and I know more than I care to about explosives. But none of that is helpful when it comes to impressing a young lady.’

  ‘Well, if what Lucy says about you is true, you must have other talents,’ said Abigail without thinking. And then, turning rather pink, ‘I’m sorry. That wasn’t a question.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear it.’ His tone was dry but there was a gleam of laughter in his eyes. ‘For the rest, I can speak good French and passable German; I can shoe a horse, make a stew that isn’t entirely disgusting and even sew on a button if I absolutely have to. I can also dig, hoe, rake and scythe with the best and I’ve heaved more crates on and off ships at Bristol docks than you can imagine. You look amazed.’

  ‘I am. You’re talking about manual work, aren’t you? But I thought … I’ve always imagined you in a big country house with a park. Like Thorne Ash or Broughton. You don’t look like someone used to earning their living. You don’t behave like one, either.’

  ‘I don’t know about that – but I’ve supported myself since I was sixteen.’

  His customary reserve coupled with something in his manner made Abigail pause but she could not resist saying cautiously, ‘And before that?’

  ‘Oh - before that I was bred to be idle in the sort of surroundings you describe,’ he replied, negligently. ‘I left it behind me ten years ago and haven’t been back since. But I suppose it accounts for any residual aura of gentility.’

  The warning was clearer this time so she said merely, ‘And it was after that that you became a soldier?’

  ‘Yes. I wanted to go abroad as a mercenary so I made my way to London and did whatever work I could find until I had enough money to buy a decent sword – that one. It wasn’t new even then but it’s seen me through a few German campaigns and a battle or two here and I’ve grown quite attached to it.’

  Silence fell for a moment and then she said, ‘Is it true that you know Prince Rupert?’

  ‘Yes. I came over with him and de Gomme and the others. I was part of his cavalry until – until circumstances conspired to send me here.’ He smiled at her. ‘You want to know what he’s like.’

  She nodded. ‘Is he really as wicked as they say?’

  ‘He’s not wicked at all. He’s just a very tall young man with the energy of ten who happens to be extremely good at his job. He loathes drunkenness, despises inefficiency, hasn’t an ounce of sophistication or tact and is ridiculously shy with women. You’d probably like him.’

  ‘And that really would put me beyond the pale, wouldn’t it?’ She clasped her arms around her knees and surveyed him keenly. ‘Will you tell me about York and London and all the other places you’ve been to?’

  ‘It’s something of a tall order – but I suppose I could try. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ She spoke with the first hint of personal bitterness he had ever known her show. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you before and I probably never will again. You’ve travelled – I’ve never been further from here than Brackley. More importantly, you represent the half of England that isn’t like Jonas. I thought that, if I listened to you, I might begin to understand why there is a war.’

  ‘Hasn’t Jonas educated you?’ he asked, lightly probing.

  ‘Oh yes. Ship money, the Scots war, the new Prayer Book, the dissolution of Parliament,’ she recited. ‘I know all about why Jonas is at war. What I don’t know is why you are.’

  ‘Does it matter? It won’t last much longer, anyway. Naseby finished us and, sooner or later, the King is going to have to face it.’

  She stared at him. ‘That’s what Jonas says.’

  ‘Well, for once he’s right. With no money, bits of our armies scattered uselessly all over the country and more of our strongholds surrendering every day, we haven’t a chance in hell of winning. All we can do is play for time by holding on to trump cards like Bristol until the King sues for terms. And let us hope,’ he added grimly, ‘that he does sue for terms. For if he chooses exile, the fanatics like Jonas will make England the sorriest country in Europe.’

  ‘And that is why you are fighting?’

  ‘Yes. The only basic difference between myself and – John Fiennes, shall we say? – is that he is defending one set of liberties and I another. His, you have lived with all your life. Mine have the advantage of being rather less restrictive.’

  She met his eyes and smiled ruefully.

  ‘You mean that yours would allow me to let my hair curl and wear a cherry taffeta gown.’

  ‘Yes. You could laugh and dance and sing songs at Christmas. You could visit the play, pick flowers on the Sabbath and flirt a little with susceptible gentlemen without wondering if you are wanton.’

  ‘Jonas says I am anyway,’ replied Abigail thoughtlessly. And then flushed painfully as she realised what she had said.

  A spark of pure temper smouldered in Justin’s eyes.

  ‘Jonas,’ he said savagely, ‘should have been drowned at birth. It would have spared him a world of sin and us a wealth of mindless, gutter-bred suspicion.’ He drew a long breath and then, in a more moderate tone added, ‘Your brother, my dear, would find fault with the Archangel Gabriel. And if you continue to pay him the slightest heed, he’ll make your life an utter misery.’

  She sighed, her head bent over her hands.

  ‘I know. But what can I do? He isn’t easy to ignore.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But you could at least start taking yourself at your own valuation instead of his. When all is said and done, the man’s no more than a —’

  ‘A puffed-up pig’s bladder?’

  ‘Quite. What did you say?’

  The dimple quivered into being and the great dark eyes laughed up at his astonishment.

  ‘A puffed-up pig’s bladder. It’s what Nancy Lucas called him.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Justin knew devastating impulse to laugh. ‘And what do you know of Nancy Lucas, pray?’

  ‘Not much. I once sold her some cambric behind Jonas’ back. I liked her.’

  He stared at her for one last, priceless second and then gave way to hilarity. Finally, still sobbing for breath, he said, ‘Oh Abby! You don’t need me. You’ll never make a good Puritan if you live to be a hundred. You’re like one of de la Roche’s damned fireworks – perfectly safe until a spark gets in.’

  ‘You make me sound dangerous,’ she complained.

  ‘I’m beginning to think you are. Will you come next week?’

  A translucent glow lit her skin. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ He rose and, reaching out a hand, pulled her to her feet. Then, growing suddenly serious, he said, ‘I’d like you to promise to stay at home tomorrow – and tell Sam to do the same. Will you?’

  ‘If you wish. But why?’

  ‘They’re hanging Hannah Rhodes at noon,’ he replied bluntly. ‘And I’d like to be sure that you won’t be there to see it.’

  ~ * ~

  SEVENTEEN

  The citizens of Banbury watched the hanging of Hannah Rhodes in sullen silence and the garrison, who had been prepared for trouble, cut the body down the same night and despatched it for hasty burial in an unmarked grave. Her belongings were cleared from the Castle and burnt and, before midnight, nothing was left of her existence except a single line, laboriously written in the Parish Register.

  July 23rd Hannah Roads executed this day as a spy by the garrison.

  The beginning of August brought a heatwave and news that Scarborough, Pomfret and Carlisle had all surrendered to the Parliament, thus completing the isolation of Montrose. Faces in the garrison grew correspondingly grim but little was said and the work of tax-collecting and
plundering convoys went on much as usual. Then Bath fell and Sherborne and word came that the New Model was turning its feet towards Bristol.

  ‘Will it fall, do you think?’ asked Abigail of Justin.

  ‘If Fairfax is left alone long enough to form a siege and maintain it, yes. Rupert’s not a miracle-worker and we took the place from Nat Fiennes with a lot less at our disposal than Fairfax has at his.’

  ‘Won’t the King help?’

  ‘I doubt it. He and his roving cavalry – the only army he has – are too busy pillaging Huntingdon. And if there’s any point to that other than as a rude gesture to Cromwell, I can’t see it.’ He paused, looking at her. ‘I hear Lilburne’s in Newgate again for his attack on Speaker Lenthall.’

  ‘Yes.’ The expressive face clouded. ‘And Sam is not only distributing tracts of it but also writing endless letters on Lilburne’s behalf.’

  ‘What sort of letters?’ asked Justin sharply. ‘Defence or agitation?’

  ‘Both, I think. He’s in touch with someone called William Walwyn and he’s frightening me to death.’

  ‘Stupid young fool! I’ve more than half a mind to arrest him for his own protection. He’ll be a damned sight safer with us than if the Presbyterians lay hands on him.’

  ‘I know – but please don’t. Firstly, he doesn’t know that you and I meet like this and, secondly, he’d never forgive me. It means a lot to him, you know.’ In an attempt to change the subject, she pulled Mercurius Britannicus from her pocket. ‘Have you seen this?’

  Justin scanned the paragraph she pointed to. It was a simple advertisement asking for information about a wanted man named Charles. The man might be recognised, it said, by his slight stammer and an inability to speak the truth. Justin screwed it up in his fist and pitched it into the nearest bush, saying contemptuously, ‘The Windmill Tavern strikes again.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s where the hottest sectaries hold their meetings. Men like Lilburne and Rainsborough - and Cromwell, if he was less careful of appearances. There’s a whole gaggle of them, mostly officers of the New Model and all Independent to the core. Their activities are giving the Presbyterians a headache and thereby doing the King a small favour.’ He surveyed her with sardonic warning. ‘It’s where Sam will probably end up, one of these days.’

  *

  On the day Justin learned that Fairfax had opened his siege of Bristol, he met Barbara Atkins for the first time in six weeks. His expression should have warned her that it was a bad time for importunities but she was too pent up to notice it and plunged recklessly in with, ‘You’ve been avoiding me. Why?’

  ‘Avoiding you?’ repeated Justin absently. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Yes, you have. It’s been weeks!’

  ‘Not as long as that, surely?’

  ‘Longer!’ His obvious indifference infuriated her and the blue eyes sparkled with determination. ‘Why haven’t I seen you?’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘All the time?’

  ‘Yes.’ Faintly exasperated boredom began to creep into his face. ‘I’m sorry if you’ve been disappointed, Bab – but I’m equally sure you haven’t wanted for company. Half the young men in Banbury must be at your feet.’

  She shrugged petulantly.

  ‘Shopkeepers and country boobies? As if I cared for them! When can you meet me?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘But you must be off-duty sometimes?’ she protested, still unable to grasp the full extent of his coolness. ‘Say when and I’ll manage to give my aunt the slip somehow.’

  His patience, always precarious, became stretched to the limit.

  ‘You won’t need to. We had a charming flirtation, my dear – but it’s over.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She looked utterly astonished. ‘You love me.’

  ‘What on earth gave you that idea?’

  ‘You did. You said I was the only ray of sunshine in this dismal town and far too pretty to waste on a clod-hopping tradesman.’

  ‘Did I?’ Justin shrugged unrepentantly. ‘But so are dozens of girls, you know. And I can’t possibly fall in love with all of them.’

  ‘Oh!’ Indignation flamed in her cheeks. ‘But you were serious. I know you were! And I thought that, when the war is over, we’d be married.’

  It might have been funny had not Justin realised that he needed to stop the wretched girl trailing about looking for him before she imperilled his Tuesday afternoons with Abby.

  ‘Then I fear you deluded yourself, sweetheart. I’m never serious and I’ve certainly no intention of saddling myself with a wife.’ He folded his arms and leaned on the door at his back, saying carelessly, ‘If five minutes against a wall in some dark alley might satisfy you, I could probably oblige. Although five minutes might be an exaggeration. It’s been a while – so three would probably suffice.’

  She turned scarlet. She didn’t, as he’d intended, simply slap his face and storm off.

  Instead, her eyes narrowing in suspicion, she spat, ‘Is there someone else?’

  ‘In this benighted place? Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Then why are you being so horrible?’

  He looked back with impersonal coldness.

  ‘Because I dislike being chased, catechised or smothered. And you, Mistress, do all three.’

  *

  At the exact moment when Royalist despondency was reaching its peak, came news that Montrose had done the impossible and won Scotland for the King. After a year which men were already calling the Annus Mirabilis, his little army had destroyed the Covenant forces at Kilsyth and taken Glasgow so that Scotland lay suddenly at his mercy. And, knowing it, the hitherto uncommitted lairds were flocking to present the Marquis with protestations of loyalty and support.

  ‘It’s one of the greatest achievements of the war, by God!’ said Ned Frost, jubilantly. ‘If he marches south, it could change everything.’

  ‘It could,’ allowed Justin cautiously. ‘But first let him hold what he’s taken … and then we’ll see.’

  ‘Don’t be such an old sour-guts. Just think what a general he must be to follow!’

  ‘I am thinking of it,’ came the quiet reply. ‘And that’s the only reason I’m not laughing my boots off at the idea he might possibly save England.’

  *

  August gave way to September. Bristol remained under close and active siege; Montrose was rumoured to have crossed the border and be on his way south; and Captain Ambrose continued to nurture seeds of insurrection in Jonas Radford’s sister.

  He told her about the cheerful bustle of London as it had been before the war and the overcrowded gaiety of Oxford since it had become the Royalist capital. He told her about the King, whom he described as quiet, dignified and bewildered by this war but with a streak of obstinacy which would probably be his undoing; and the Queen - not pretty, with her sallow skin and protruding teeth. He even spoke of Lord George Digby and the offence that had resulted in his own transfer to Banbury

  ‘I merely said that I hoped his love-making showed a better grasp of tactics than did his military advice – for the latter was unsubtle, ineffective and frequently catastrophic.’

  Abigail stared. ‘You’re nothing if not direct, are you?’

  ‘I only say what I think. And my sole regret is that, since I’m sure he’d have found an excuse for my removal anyway, I didn’t say it to his face instead of letting that gossip, Wilmot, repeat it for me.’ He cast an anxious glance at the sky. ‘It’s going to rain, you know.’

  It was September 6th and all morning the air had been heavy and thundery. But when Jonas and Rachel departed as usual for Adderbury, Abigail had been too relieved to care what the weather would do. She said, ‘It’s all right. I won’t dissolve in a shower of rain.’

  ‘Possibly not. But we’ve walked further than usual and you haven’t even brought a cloak.’

  ‘Neither have you.’ She searched her mind for a diversion and then found it. ‘William
Walwyn has got up a petition to free Lilburne. Did you know?’

  ‘No.’ He surveyed her with amused understanding. ‘But then I don’t have access to privileged sources. Is Sam still —’

  His words were drowned by a deafening clap of thunder which reverberated through the sky directly over their heads.

  ‘Hell!’ He came swiftly to his feet as the first spots of rain pattered ponderously down. ‘Come on – out of these bloody trees. We’ll make straight for the Southam road. It’s a longer way back and we’ll probably get soaked but it’s better than being struck by lightning.’

  ‘But your horse?’ protested Abigail, already moving quickly at his side, her hand held firmly in his. ‘Shouldn’t we —’

  ‘He’ll bolt and make for his stable. Stop arguing and save your breath for running.’

  By the time they reached the road, the thunder was an almost continuous roar and jagged flashes of lightning were tearing the sky. Then the heavens opened and the rain became a torrential downpour that drenched Abigail within minutes and bade fair to turn the road into a sea of mud.

  Pausing to let her get her breath, Justin said, ‘Your mother is going to have a fit if you go home like this. You’d better come into the Castle till the rain stops.’ His voice held an unexpected note of laughter. ‘We can try drying you off a bit and it’s nearer anyway.’

  Abigail peered at him between descending snake-like coils of hair.

  ‘I don’t think I should.’

  ‘Why not? You needn’t worry about Jonas. He’ll be lucky if he gets home at all today with the roads like this. Come on, before we start to sink in.’

  The Castle precincts were almost deserted. Justin whisked Abigail upstairs virtually unnoticed and then, shutting the door behind him, said briskly, ‘You’d better get rid of that wet gown and do something about drying your hair. Take a blanket to wrap round yourself and you can change in there.’ He pointed to the inner door. ‘It’s full of all sorts of rubbish but I daresay you’ll manage. I’ll make the fire up.’