by Stella Riley
They were no more than four miles as the crow flew from Trent House but he did not think of it as home. It had never been that since the day his gentle mother had run off with the estate manager rather than spend an unsuccessful lifetime attempting to match the inflexible perfection of her handsome lord. Justin had been seven then and had not understood. But the next four years of trying to please his superb, forbidding father had done much to teach him. Nothing, he discovered, was ever quite good enough; not his academic studies, not his horsemanship, not even his table manners. And gradually had come the knowledge that, beneath the river of icy reserve, lay a rock of actual dislike that was rooted in the fact that beautiful, unworthy Catherine looked out of his own silver-grey eyes.
He had been eleven when hope had finally been extinguished by the news that she was dead; and, during the course of the next year, servants’ gossip alerted him to the fact that his noble parent was intent on fathering another son and prepared to marry any female who could give him one. When this strategy proved unsuccessful, the seventh baron had changed tack and gone travelling for a time. For three months, Justin had been almost happy. Then purgatory became hell when his father brought Cordelia French home as his bride. Cordelia and the three children of her first marriage; sixteen-year-old Bernard – strong and a born bully; fourteen-year-old John with his clever, lacerating tongue; and twelve-year-old Jenny – dainty, golden and rotten as a poisoned peach.
Justin’s fingers tightened involuntarily on his bridle. He still carried the scars of some of Bernard’s unpleasant little pastimes - and John’s derisive speculations on his paternity were enshrined in his mind like flies in amber.
You’re nothing but a bastard, are you? And with your mother’s fondness of bailiffs and grooms and the like – who’s to know who begot you?
But it was Jenny – sweet-faced, smiling Jenny who had triumphed in the end and sent him into bitter exile.
‘They’re after us again,’ said Rupert, breaking sharply into the unpleasant pattern of Justin’s thoughts. ‘Keep close formation, gentlemen – and be ready to turn when I do.’
*
Tired, dirty but safe, they arrived at Belvoir Castle in time for a belated dinner and were told that the King, still with no word from Montrose, had set off northwards to find him. Digby, of course, had gone too.
A contemptuous smile lit Rupert’s eyes.
‘Heard I was coming and bolted, did he? Well it won’t do him any good. I’d follow him to hell – let alone Scotland.’
The following morning, surprisingly, brought a letter from the King which Rupert crumpled carelessly in his hand while he asked after Digby.
‘He’s taking the northern Horse into Scotland, Your Highness,’ replied the messenger nervously. ‘His Majesty has sent him to help my Lord Montrose who, it seems, is in full retreat and not marching south as we thought. The King himself is returning to Newark and Lord Digby is now Lieutenant-General of all the forces north of the Trent.’
The blaze of fury in the dark eyes prompted Justin to remove the King’s envoy from earshot. Then he said quietly, ‘You’d best read the letter, sir.’
Rupert told him, at some length and in the vernacular, what he could do with it.
‘Quite. But that won’t get you your court-martial, will it?’
‘Neither will this,’ growled Rupert, throwing the letter down on a table and striding off to the window. ‘It will be an order to stay away. My uncle has a nice touch with a pen. You should have seen what he wrote to me immediately after Bristol, when he told me to ‘seek my subsistence somewhere beyond the seas’ and sent me a pass signed by Digby. I still don’t know why I bothered to read it. I swore, after the one he sent me before Marston Moor that I’d never mind his letters again. I even keep the bloody thing in my pocket as a reminder. But I won’t speak of that – even with you. I fought and lost and nothing has gone right since.’ He turned and fixed a sombre gaze on Justin. ‘Do you remember the last time we entered Newark together back in ’43?’
Justin nodded. The town had been closely beleaguered and Rupert had effected a brilliant relief. Then a chance meeting had revealed his own dark secret and the Prince had held it in trust for him ever since.
‘Yes. I remember.’
There was a silence and then Rupert said abruptly, ‘I told you to go home then and you didn’t do it. This time you will. Ten years is too long to be hag-ridden. Once this court-martial is over – if, that is, I ever get it – you’ll go back if I have to drag you there at pistol-point.’
*
After an unpleasant interlude in which he forced his way into the King’s presence only to be totally ignored, Rupert was finally granted a court-martial to enquire into his surrender of Bristol. While it progressed through its two sittings, Justin lodged with the Princes in the house of Newark’s Governor, Sir Richard Wyllis and found that time hung heavily on his hands. He could quite easily have ridden out to Trent but he did not go. He was afraid, he suddenly realised, of how he might conduct himself.
The court found Rupert ‘not guilty of the least want of courage or fidelity’ but did nothing to reconcile him to an uncle who could forgive neither his disobedience nor his discourtesy. Vindicated but not reinstated, Rupert relapsed into bitter depression. Through the wet October evenings, his friends gathered before Sir Richard’s roaring fire and began, cautiously, to examine the possibility of making Rupert their King.
Into this charged and potentially explosive atmosphere came two pieces of news. Basing House had fallen at last to the pillaging lust of Cromwell’s soldiers and Digby had found a dramatic way to escape from Prince Rupert’s fury. He had managed to lose the northern Horse somewhere near Dumfries and promptly fled to the Isle of Man.
Gripped by a sudden, inexplicable restlessness, Justin took his horse from the stables and rode out of the town. He paid little heed to the direction he was taking and it was not until he halted for a mug of ale at a dingy wayside tavern that he realised that another mile would bring him into the village of Hawksworth and four would see him at the gates of his old home.
Something inside him shivered at the uncanny chance that had brought him this far and on this day. October 24th. His twenty-seventh birthday. Shrugging it aside, he rode resolutely on. There was nothing to fear, nothing to avoid and nothing to force him anywhere he chose not to go. He was master of his own destiny and the notion that his journey today was pre-ordained was sheer nonsense.
It was mid-afternoon and fog was beginning to thicken the air. Tall, ornate and heavily wrought, the gates of Trent House loomed up with an unexpectedness that trapped the breath in his throat. He stretched out tentative fingers to touch the coat-of-arms embossed on the great lock and watched the gate swing back with what sounded like a groan of eerie invitation. Then, because there no longer seemed anything else to do, he nudged his horse forward and entered.
The drive was less neat than he remembered and the house – an ancient, moated manor – wore an air of dilapidation. Justin sat for a long time before he dismounted, then he tethered his horse, crossed the bridge over the murky water and passed under the gate-arch to the door. Hesitation banished and every emotion securely locked away, he did not bother to knock but lifted the latch and walked back into the place of his worst memories.
The vaulted hall smelled noticeably of fish and there was dust on every surface; small things but ones which spoke loudly of his father’s passing. Justin curved his hand absently round a tarnished silver candlestick and heard a familiar, high-pitched voice say sharply, ‘If you are a thief, sir, you have come to the wrong house. There is little enough here worth taking.’
He turned slowly and stared at her without speaking. The golden hair was untidy, the porcelain skin had grown florid and the daintiness had vanished beneath a good deal of extra flesh. She looked ten years older than she was and as vulgar as a pothouse bawd. Scowling at him over her shoulder was a youthful replica of everything she had once been.
His
cold grey gaze remaining fixed on the child, Justin spoke at last.
‘Well, well, Jenny. Is that the little bastard you tried to foist on me? Or have you several?’
Her eyes widened warily.
‘Who are you?’
‘Don’t you know?’ He smiled and walked deliberately into the light of a window. ‘I’m surprised at you. A girl ought to remember the men she’s accused of rape and ruin – if only in the spirit of self-preservation.’
The high colour fled, leaving her ghastly white.
‘Justin?’ she whispered, one hand creeping to her throat. And then, to the child, ‘Find your uncle, Meg. Quickly!’
Meg’s scowl became more pronounced.
‘Why? Who’s that man?’
‘Never you mind!’ Jenny rounded on her. ‘Just do as I say and hurry up about it.’
Wisely, Meg turned and fled.
A malicious smile curled Justin’s mouth.
‘Frightened, Jenny?’
She swallowed. ‘Why are you here?’
‘For revenge? To pass a dull Friday? To reacquaint myself with my birthright?’ he offered lightly. ‘It must have been a nasty shock when Father reinstated me.’
The gentian gaze flickered. ‘You know about that?’
‘Yes. I know. A little gull told me. And since I don’t somehow see his late, unlamented lordship falling prey to sentimental melancholy, I can only assume that one or all of you must have been careless enough to annoy him. Unless,’ he added with deceptive negligence, ‘he discovered the error of his ways?’
‘I don’t know why he did it,’ came the pettish reply. ‘It turns out he changed his will four years ago but the first any of us knew of it was about six months before he died when he had a terrible quarrel with Bernard about the money.’
‘Oh? What about the money?’
‘The fact that there wasn’t any. The cunning old devil was busy making sure that the King got the lot.’
An arrested gleam lit Justin’s eyes but when he spoke his voice was like the flick of a lash.
‘Well, no doubt he preferred pouring it down the drain to dropping it in the midden.’
Jenny gasped. Then she said abruptly, ‘You’ve changed.’
‘So have you.’
He surveyed her mockingly. And then, just for an instant, the years rolled back and she was again the girl she’d been in that fateful summer of 1635. He saw her with tears sparkling on her lashes and the golden hair falling in disarray over the torn bodice of her gown as, with halting, heart-rending innocence, she poured her tale of rape into his father’s cold, receptive ear. He saw her leaning against the gate on the following day, laughing at him and sending him on his travels with the useless truth ringing through his head.
‘I’m pregnant, you stupid creature – and I could hardly say I’d been lying with the gamekeeper, could I? Now, when they find out, they’ll assume it’s yours and no one will blame me because I was forced. Don’t you think that’s clever?’
He drew a long breath and said again, ‘So have you. And if degeneration runs in the family, I can’t wait to see the others. Where are they?’
Her colour came flooding back but she was still wary enough of him to mind what she said.
‘Mother’s in London with John. He’s a secretary to the Committee of Both Kingdoms.’
‘Is he indeed? Well, that should suit him to perfection,’ replied Justin derisively. ‘And Bernard? Sam Luke’s master-spy?’
‘How do you kn —’ She stopped, biting her tongue.
‘How do I know?’ He laughed harshly. ‘My little gull was most informative. Her name was Hannah and Bernard sent her to kill me. Didn’t you know?’
‘Oh God,’ breathed Jenny. ‘No. He didn’t tell me that. Was? She’s dead?’
‘Very. And buried. Something else Bernard forgot to mention?’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t know.’
‘Extremely unlikely if he’s still on Luke’s payroll. But if not, then I shall have the pleasure of enlightening him.’ He paused, smiling coldly. ‘He is here, isn’t he? You told the gamekeeper’s brat to fetch her uncle – and John, you say, is in London.’
‘Yes. He’s here. And he’ll make minced meat of you – the same as he always did.’
‘He’s welcome to try. He may find it a little more difficult these days.’
‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ She eyed him bitterly. ‘Are you married?’
‘No. Are you?’ She did not reply and he said sweetly, ‘What – all your former beauty withered away and no name for the little bastard? What a shame.’
‘Damn you!’ said Jenny again, her voice rising to a screech. ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘Entertainment. Can you blame me? And this is my house, sweetheart. Or had you conveniently forgotten that rather significant fact?’
She gave an hysterical laugh.
‘That’s what you think.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘You’ll find out. Bernard will – oh, thank God!’ She turned sharply away to the sound of approaching footsteps. ‘And about time! I thought you were never coming. Look who’s here! It’s —’
‘The bastard,’ said Bernard French flatly. He paused in the doorway, massive and blond as a Viking, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Justin. ‘The Monster Captain of Banbury. Did you enjoy that, brother?’
‘Not nearly as much as seeing your whore hang,’ came the bland reply. ‘Tell me. Did she learn her deviant techniques in your bed or someone else’s? I’ve often wondered.’
The heavy, expressionless face darkened and Bernard advanced into the room.
‘Why? Were you a disappointment to her?’
‘Since I’m still alive, obviously not,’ shrugged Justin. ‘You will have guessed that she broke the glad tidings of my father’s change of heart. I’m here to find out what prompted it.’
There was a pause.
‘I should have known,’ said Bernard. ‘I should have known that, sooner or later, curiosity would bring you. Nothing we did ever hurt half as much as the speed with which the old man believed ill of you, did it? And now you want to find out if he died knowing you innocent or if he restored your inheritance merely because you’d become the lesser of two evils.’
‘That’s more or less it,’ agreed Justin coolly. ‘And you know, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I know.’ Bernard smiled. ‘I’m reminded of the day that goldsmith fellow walked in with your mother’s picture and told the baron that you’d sold it to him. Do you remember it? A pretty little thing set in gold and emeralds?’
‘Yes,’ said Justin quietly, seeing again the expensively-framed miniature that had been painted of his mother the year before her marriage. ‘I remember it.’
‘I thought you would. But what I remember is the look in your father’s eye. For years he’d wanted a solid reason for disliking you … and suddenly there it was, being laid in his hand like a present. And he was so bloody glad he didn’t ask a single question, did he? Not one – even to allow you a word in your own defence.’
‘And you found his attitude a godsend,’ finished Justin. ‘I know. Did you steal the painting or was it John?’
‘John took it. I just bribed the tradesman. Didn’t you find our choice ironic? Even if you hadn’t been too bloody honest for your own good, you’d never have sold that picture. It meant too damned much to you.’
‘I find a good many things ironic,’ replied Justin over folded arms. ‘Are you determined to pursue a meandering course down memory lane – or can we come to the point?’
‘The point, my cockerel, is this. I’m the only one who can tell you whether or not your father discovered the truth – and it will be a cold day in hell before I do it. You can go to your grave wondering.’
Nothing changed in the shuttered face but Justin’s eyes were like flint.
‘How tediously predictable you are,’ he said gently. ‘But the estate is still mine, you know.
How do you plan to keep it?’
‘Very simply. You’re an active Royalist, a delinquent – and John and I have made sure that the Parliament is fully aware of every particular.’
‘Ah.’ A muscle twitched in the hard jaw and then was still. ‘Of course. Sequestration.’
‘Bright, isn’t he?’ Bernard directed a mocking smile at his sister. Then, looking back at Justin, ‘As you say – sequestration. Every acre is under seal to the Parliament and assigned, in the meantime, to me.’
‘Until I compound. I can, you know.’
‘Of course. You can take the Solemn League and Covenant, swear the Negative Oath and pay your fine. The trouble is that the fine’s been fixed at one third of the estate’s pre-war value,’ announced Bernard with slow satisfaction. ‘A third. Have you any idea of how much land you’d have to sell to raise that?’
There was a long inimical silence.
‘If it puts you back in the gutter you came from,’ replied Justin deliberately, ‘I’d sell every last square inch.’
‘You see?’ Breaking her long silence, Jenny turned fretfully on her brother. ‘He’s going to compound. I told you he would. He’d be mad not to. And what will become of us then?’
‘Nothing,’ said Bernard, smiling. ‘Nothing at all. You’re a fool, Jenny. You don’t imagine I’m going to let him leave here, do you?’
Justin did not move but the light eyes flamed with sudden savage brilliance, as though the words were ones he’d been waiting for. He said softly, ‘Do you think you can stop me? I’m not a child any more. Or are you expecting help?’
‘Help?’ Bernard gave a bark of contemptuous laughter and pulled out his sword. ‘The little bastard’s become a braggart. I took a crop to you on one occasion, as I recall? Have you forgotten it? Or that I could break you with my bare hands? And I can do it still. But this time … this last time, I’ll let you strut and bluster and show me what you’ve learned. And then, for Hannah and the land and my own satisfaction, I’m going to kill you.’