by Stella Riley
‘Your clothes.’
He said nothing but stripped briskly, not bothering where anything landed. ‘And now?’
‘You. I want you.’
It was what he’d hoped for but realisation that, aside from a few stray kisses, he’d barely touched her made him say rapidly, ‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’ Then, when he didn’t move, she reached out a hand to stroke him, saying huskily, ‘Now. Please. Don’t make me wait.’
It was the first time she’d been confident enough to touch him in that way and his breath escaped on an involuntary groan. Pausing only to remove her shift, he captured her mouth in one long, fierce kiss and pushed her back amongst the pillows.
‘After that,’ he said unevenly, ‘I couldn’t make you wait even if I tried.’
Smoothing back her hair, he kissed her again … and then possessed the sweet silken fire she offered him.
Abigail’s hips lifted a little, drawing him deeper. And then, exactly as she had done the night before, she was suddenly still. For a handful of seconds, she smiled up at him as if savouring one perfect moment; a moment which, due as much to her expression as to the exquisite sensation of being joined to her, he found himself sharing.
He said, ‘Oh Abby … love.’
And resumed his adoration of her body until they tumbled, effortlessly and together, over the edge.
*
For Abigail, the day of the evacuation began at a little after dawn when she woke to the honeyed promise of lazily drifting hands. She stirred, her fingers stretching responsively against the warmth of his chest and said sleepily, ‘Is it time to get up?’
‘For me, yes.’ Justin turned to her smiling. ‘You can lie a little longer. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘Didn’t you?’ The dark eyes opened, smiling, and her arms slid up around his neck. ‘Why not?’
Something changed in his face and he said quickly, ‘I want you to know that … that it’s never been like this before. And that, despite my variable past, there will be no others.’
‘But I knew that,’ she replied gently. ‘Haven’t I told you that I love you?’
‘Yes.’ He drew her hard against him. ‘But not today.’ He kissed her and then, reluctantly releasing her, said, ‘I have to go. My first job of many today is delivering all our firearms to the Parliamentary camp before nine o’clock – and that will mean re-checking the carts in case any of our fellows thought a pistol or two wouldn’t be missed.’
While he splashed water on his face and pulled on his clothes, he started issuing Abigail with a feu de joie of instructions.
‘Pack only the essentials – we can’t take much on horseback – and put everything else in the chest. I’ll try and arrange for the carrier to collect it. I’ll shave later, so leave my razors out and I’ll be sending someone up to polish my boots. I’ll wear the claret coat and you can throw the other away. I won’t be needing it again.’ He headed for the door, coatless and faintly dishevelled. ‘Ah yes – and, if you can find any old bits of soft cloth, I’d like to clean my sword.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Abigail was still sitting up in bed with her hair tumbling wildly about her shoulders. ‘Are we out to make an impression?’
‘Yes.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Something like that.’
Despite what he had said, she folded his buff-coat neatly away in the chest in obedience to an illogical inner prompting of her own. Then she brushed the claret coat, laid out a clean shirt and his grey silk sash and set to work on her own appearance. She put her hair up, hoping it might stay that way, and donned a simple gown of fine, dark red wool.
Justin returned at a little before nine bearing Lucy’s sapphire velvet cloak. Abigail stared at it and said, ‘I can’t take that. It’s beautiful and Lucy’s extremely kind – but it’s far too grand for travelling.’
‘You’ve forgotten the bit about making an impression,’ he replied, without looking at her. ‘Alternatively, you could wear it to please Lucy.’
While Justin proceeded to ready himself with startling rapidity, Abigail wandered about the room, aimlessly touching things. Finally twitching the folds of his sash into place, he reached for his cavalry cloak and said quietly, ‘What is it, Abby? Regrets?’
‘No.’ She smiled at him. ‘I believe I was storing up memories – but it’s done now. Is it time to go?’
‘Yes.’ He crossed to her side and put his arm about her. ‘It’s time. In fact, we’re probably a little late.’
‘For what?’
‘You’ll see.’ And, whistling for Rex to follow them, he swept her from the room.
They emerged from the shade of the Castle into the brightness of the north ward and for a moment Abigail was dazzled by brilliant sunshine and a vivid blue sky. Then the air drained slowly from her lungs as, for the first and last time, she saw the entire garrison arrayed with formal splendour in the fortress that it had held so long and so stubbornly. Pikes, helmets and breast-plates glittered amidst an ordered forest of green and buff. Silk sashes gleamed, colours fluttered gently in the breeze, horses shuffled in a jingle of harness. And every still face and upright figure bore a stamp of pride that brought a lump to Abigail’s throat.
‘Come,’ said Justin softly. ‘They’re waiting for us.’
She accompanied him without question until she saw the Castle chaplain and the Governor waiting beside Hugh and Lucy and Ned. Shock brought her to an abrupt halt.
‘Justin?’
He smiled down at her. ‘I thought … I thought that now seemed as good a time as any. And can you honestly think of anywhere better than here, with our friends all around us?’
And, of course, she couldn’t.
While Ned took her cloak, Justin collected a posy of cornflowers and anemones from Lucy and handed them to Abigail, saying simply, ‘I thought you ought to have them. And one of Colonel Whalley’s lieutenants was surprisingly helpful.’
Touched beyond measure that, with so much else to do, he should have thought of this, Abigail could only manage a tremulous smile before Sir William placed her fingers on his sleeve as he prepared to take the part of her kinsman. Then she was standing beside Justin before the upturned drum.
The ceremony was brief – no more than a simple exchanging of vows – and there was no music. But all around was the familiar creak of leather and muffled chink of armour and somewhere a bird was singing. A clump of broom glowed gold against the worn, grey stone of the Castle and, far about it, the lions and lilies of England floated serenely in a cobalt sky as Justin took Abigail for his wife.
He kissed her amidst a surge of cheers, whistles and stamping; and then, over the noise, said, ‘I wish I could tell you that it will be easy when we get to Trent – but I can’t. It may be months before everything is sorted out. Perhaps … perhaps I should send you with Ned and Lucy after all, just for a little while.’
‘No.’ Abigail smiled up at him. ‘Entreat me not to leave thee … for whither thou goest, I will go. Always. As long as you love me.’
‘Always, then,’ replied Justin simply. ‘For I swear I’ll love you till I die.’
*
After the good wishes and farewells came the final ritual of surrender. Bareheaded and grimly silent, the undefeated ranks of the Banbury garrison watched the massing of their colours and the lowering of the King’s standard. Then hats and helmets were replaced while, for the first time in four months, the gates were opened wide revealing the red-coated lines of the New Model Army.
A crisp order tore the air, followed by the staccato tuck of drums. With cool, leisured dignity, Sir William Compton led his people out across the moat and into the wider world beyond.
~ * ~
Historical Note
Although Justin Ambrose, the Radford family, Ned & Lucy Frost and a handful of other characters are my invention, their world is firmly rooted in fact.
Aside from those named above, most of the other characters in the book really existed; Sir William Com
pton, Anthony Greene, Charles Walrond, Hugh Vaughan, Will Tirwhitt, John Fiennes, Major Lytcot, John Lilburne – and, of course, Princes Rupert and Maurice. About the spy, Hannah Rhodes – or Roads as the Parish Register has it - little is known apart from the date of and reason for her execution.
The town of Banbury was as I have described it and the events and dates given pertaining to the Castle are as accurate as my research could make them. All have been drawn from the vast number of letters, reports and news-sheets that were written at the time. I am also indebted to Lord Saye & Sele’s family archivist who, when I originally wrote this book, supplied me with information about John Fiennes that I was unable to find elsewhere.
Banbury Castle was one of many English strongholds, held against tremendous odds and at enormous cost by ordinary men whose names are scarcely remembered now. This book is a small tribute to some of them.
Stella Riley