by Stella Riley
In some dim corner of her mind, Venetia realised that she ought to have initiated this conversation months ago … but that now, while he was in pain and deathly tired, was not the time to pursue it. Setting her cup to one side, she said, ‘That poultice must be cooling by now. Given a bed, do you think you could sleep?’
‘Only for a week or so. Is there a bed?’
‘Yes.’ She rose and faced him squarely. ‘There’s mine … if you can bear to share it.’
His brows rose over a look of faint confusion.
‘That’s generous of you. Are you sure?’
‘Why not? It’s not an invitation, you understand – just a practical solution. And we’ve done it before, after all.’ A swift, genuinely amused smile dawned. ‘The only difference is that this time I don’t think we’ll need the bolster. With the best will in the world, you’re in no fit state to be over-taken by lust.’
*
Wat arrived an hour after dawn, frightened the maids silly by hammering relentlessly on the door and then stormed inside to confront Mr Morrell.
‘Where is he?’
‘Gabriel?’ asked Jack, never at his best before breakfast. ‘He left here late last night to —’
‘He may have left but he came back again. His horse is in your stable, still saddled and with blood all over it.’
‘What?’ The sleepy gaze sharpened. ‘No – it can’t be. If he’d come back here, I’d know.’
‘Excuse me, Mr Morrell, sir.’ One of the maids stood timidly at his elbow. ‘I reckon I ought to tell you—’
‘Not now,’ said Jack. And to Wat,’ Did you say blood?’
‘Yes. And it don’t belong to the mare, neither.’
‘Wonderful.’ Jack threw open the parlour door and strode in. Then he stopped dead, staring at the litter of blood-stained rags, the empty brandy bottle and, lastly, at Gabriel’s maltreated coat. Finally, he drew a bemused breath and said, ‘What the devil’s been going on?’
The little maid hovered in the doorway.
‘It’s how we found it this morning, sir.’
Wat rounded on her.
‘Have you seen Colonel Brandon?’
She shook her head. ‘Not a sign since he left last night.’
‘Then where the bloody hell is he?’
‘Calm down, Wat,’ snapped Jack. ‘Somebody’s obviously seen him. And since it wasn’t Annis or me or the maids, it must have been —’
‘Me,’ said Venetia, walking forward as coolly as if she was in full Court dress rather than a trailing chamber-robe. ‘He was hurt in some sort of attack last night. I was still up when he came back so I did what I could for him. I’m sorry about the mess.’
‘So where is he now?’ asked Wat single-mindedly.
‘Asleep. He has a knife-wound in his arm and an injured shoulder. But I can assure you that he’ll live.’
There was a long, thoughtful silence. Then Jack said slowly, ‘Since the house is full, which bed did you put him in?’
The merest hint of colour stained her skin but her expression remained perfectly impervious.
‘Mine. But I wouldn’t jump to too many conclusions. As bruised as he is, Gabriel’s unlikely to be able to enjoy a good laugh for quite some time.’ Then, taking advantage of the ensuing silence, she picked up the buff-coat and placed it almost symbolically in Wat’s hands. ‘He needs a shirt, by the way. His own is quite unwearable.’
*
By the time Colonel Brandon put in an appearance, the household was assembled round the breakfast-table and everyone knew where he had spent the night and why. He therefore walked into a barrage of varying speculation about his health, his adventures in Upper Moorfields and probably, though no one was stupid enough to mention it, his relationship with his wife. A glint of amusement lurking at the back of his eyes, Gabriel gave a deliberately understated account of his injuries and responded to Phoebe’s and Bryony’s excited questions with patient good-humour.
Venetia, still in her robe and with her hair loosely confined in a ribbon, merely looked on saying nothing. Then, as soon as the opportunity presented itself, she rose and said lightly, ‘Now my room is my own again, I’m going to dress.’
Phoebe and Bryony regarded her consideringly and exchanged meaningful glances when Gabriel also stood up.
‘Then, since I’ll be leaving very shortly, perhaps we might have a word in private now?’ he said pleasantly.
‘Of course, if you wish it.’
‘I do.’ Ignoring the breathless hush around the table, he followed her purposefully out into the hall and, with the door closed behind them, said, ‘The general curiosity is already at a peak, so I’ll be brief. I just wanted to thank you properly both for your help and the use of your bed.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ shrugged Venetia, suddenly aware of a vague and inexplicable sense of constraint. ‘Are you sure you’re fit enough to ride?’
‘Probably not – but it’s necessary. And Wat will be with me.’ He hesitated briefly, as if undecided whether to speak or not. Then, ‘There’s one more thing. Aside from the fact that last night has hopefully brought us to a better understanding of each other … I wanted you to be assured that, unlike our collective relatives, I am making no other untoward assumptions. Nor will I be.’
She looked back at him with mild surprise.
‘I know that. If I’d had any doubts on that score, I’d have spent the night with Phoebe.’
Before he left, Gabriel spent a few minutes alone with his foster-brother. Jack immediately said, ‘It’s a fine state of affairs when a fellow can’t travel at night without being set on by footpads.’
‘Ah.’ The dark eyes hardened a little. ‘But you see, they weren’t footpads.’
Jack stared at him. ‘Not?’
‘No. I distinctly heard one of them say, “This must be Brandon. Take him.” And that, coupled with the fact that at no time did any of them seem remotely interested in my purse, naturally leads me to suppose that this was a personal attack rather than a robbery.’
‘But why?’
‘I’ve no idea – and unfortunately I haven’t the time to find out,’ said Gabriel briskly. ‘I’m only telling you in case any other unpleasantness occurs during my absence. There’s no need for you to mention it to anyone else.’
‘Hell’s teeth,’ muttered Jack, watching the Colonel rise somewhat stiffly to his feet. ‘You’re pretty cool for a man who’s just escaped assassination.’
‘Did you expect me to dissolve into a jelly?’
‘No. But some discussion might be nice.’
‘To what end?’ Gabriel grinned suddenly. ‘And I’m sure you’ve other questions you’d like to ask.’
Jack eyed him sardonically. ‘Meaning you’d answer them?’
‘Why not? Actually, it’s very simple. Venetia and I shared a bed out of nothing more than simple expediency. And if you’d seen the shape I was in last night, you’d have no difficulty in believing it.’
‘What’s to say I don’t anyway?’
‘My long acquaintance with your suspicious nature.’
A reluctant smile dawned.
‘Yes. Well, you’ve never exactly lived like a monk, have you? And she’s a remarkably beautiful woman. So naturally I wondered if you hadn’t …’
‘Availed myself of the obvious compensations?’ finished Gabriel helpfully. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you – but no.’ And then, pausing briefly by the door, ‘But you’re right about one thing. She’s certainly remarkable.’
~ ~ ~
NINE
Venetia watched from her window as Colonel Brandon climbed stiffly into his saddle and rode away with Wat. Then she told her maid to inform Mistress Phoebe, Mistress Morrell and anyone else who was interested that she was nursing a headache – and sent for Sym Potter.
When he arrived, she said briskly, ‘Would you recognise Sir Ellis Brandon if you saw him?’
‘Aye.’ He gave a cautious nod. ‘Happen I would.’
A totally incredulous expression crept across the weatherbeaten face and Venetia smiled a little.
‘I know. But it shouldn’t be as difficult as it sounds. He’s been seen in both Cheapside and Westminster. So if you start frequenting the Bull’s Head Tavern or The Leg in King Street, you should trip over him fairly quickly.’
‘And if I do?’ asked Sym without noticeable enthusiasm.
‘You can tell him I want to talk to him. Urgently and in private.’
After Sym had gone, Venetia sat down and tried to make sense of the last twenty-four hours. This wasn’t easy – for while one half of her was claiming that she hadn’t done anything at all illogical, the other was asking what on earth had possessed her. Tending the Colonel’s wounds had been one thing; under the circumstances, surely anyone would have done as much. But risking the status quo of her marriage by allowing him to spend the night in her room was another matter entirely. In the cold light of day, it looked like an act of sheer folly. And were it not for the fact that she’d barely touched the stuff, Venetia would have been tempted to blame the brandy.
Not that anything had happened. Gabriel had merely collapsed into restless slumber and she herself had lain staring into the darkness until shortly before Mr Larkin had come hammering on the door. It had been no more intimate or romantic than their wedding-night – just a good deal less tense. And that, of course, was the crux of the matter. Whether she liked it or not – and despite everything Gabriel had said – a change had occurred and it was probably irrevocable. For you couldn’t go on being actively hostile towards someone you’d invited to sleep in your bed.
Venetia drew a long, thoughtful breath. So that was it, then. She no longer disliked him as passionately as she had done. More, she had just proved, without any particular consideration, that she trusted him. But why? Had it been born out of the strangeness of last night … or had it been growing slowly for weeks without her noticing it? She didn’t know – and, as yet, wasn’t even convinced that she wanted to. Right now, the only thing she was certain of was that life’s complications were breeding faster than she could handle them.
A carriage trundled into the yard below and, looking down, she recognised it as that of Lady Gillingham. Venetia drew back from the window and hoped that someone would have the sense to present her excuses. She liked Isabel but she wasn’t in the mood for trivial gossip. There were more important things to think about.
Both she and Phoebe had seen Ellis, and Gabriel had implied that the attack on him might have been personal. Two apparently random facts which, however improbable it seemed, might possibly be connected. Venetia did not think Ellis would stoop to sending hired ruffians after his half-brother. He was much more likely to make some foolish, flamboyant gesture in front of the largest audience he could find. But she couldn’t be sure. “Do you want me to kill him for you?” he had said. She’d assumed he hadn’t meant it. But supposing she’d been wrong – or that his encounter with Gabriel had acted as some kind of catalyst? What then?
It was too unpleasant a thought to dwell on and Venetia came abruptly to her feet, telling herself that she had absolutely no proof that Gabriel’s attackers hadn’t simply been footpads after all. He certainly had not said so; he’d just made an oblique statement which he’d later passed off as some sort of weak joke. Venetia didn’t find it funny but she hoped that a joke was all it had been because the alternative was appalling.
She waited until Isabel had left and then forced herself to go downstairs and face the inevitable speculation. It wasn’t as bad as she had feared. Alone in the parlour, Phoebe looked up from the letter she had been reading and said, ‘It’s all right. Her ladyship’s gone. And Gabriel explained the situation to Mr Morrell – who explained it to Annis who passed it on to Bryony and me. So there’ll be no awkward questions and no winking at each other behind your back. I won’t even tease you about being better friends with Gabriel. I’ll just say I’m glad of it.’
Venetia looked ironically back at her.
‘Pleasing you was naturally my prime motive. What did Isabel want?’
‘She thought you might like to go the Exchange with her. But I explained about last night and —’
‘You did what?’
‘For heaven’s sake – I didn’t tell her everything. What do you take me for? I just said that Gabriel had been set upon by footpads and you’d been up very late, tending his wounds.’
‘Oh. Well, I’m sure she found that fascinating.’
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic. She was quite shocked, actually. She asked how seriously he’d been hurt and hoped the ride North wouldn’t prove too much for him. Then she sent you her fondest love and left. Satisfied?’
‘Do I have a choice?’ asked Venetia irritably. And then, ‘Is that a letter from Mother?’
‘Yes.’ Phoebe sighed and held it out. ‘She’s invited Aunt Margaret and Cousins Henry and Mary to come and keep her company. And we both know what that means.’
‘We do.’ Venetia finished scanning her parent’s characteristically self-centred epistle and dropped it distastefully back on the seat beside her sister. ‘They’ll stay for months. But it’s no good worrying about it now. We’ll just have to see what can be done when we get home again.’
‘Why don’t we go now? We might as well. Or perhaps, knowing Ellis to be in the vicinity, you’ve other ideas?’ suggested Phoebe. And then, when no answer was forthcoming, ‘I really did see him, you know.’
‘So you said.’ This was by no means a subject that Venetia felt prepared to discuss. ‘What you haven’t said is precisely where you went yesterday afternoon – and how involved you’re becoming with Bryony and Mr Radford.’
‘I’m not involved at all. I like them both very much, of course, but I’m not about to turn Leveller. I want an end to the squabbles not another means of prolonging them.’
‘I’m glad. Lilburne may be a remarkable fellow … but as Mercurius Melancholicus says, he’s quite likely to shed his feathers at Tyburn one of these days.’ Venetia eyed her sister invitingly. ‘However. I’m still waiting to hear where you went yesterday.’
‘Are you?’ Phoebe rose, shook out her skirts and headed for the door, smiling faintly. ‘They say fair exchange is no robbery, don’t they? So you tell me your secrets and I’ll tell you mine.’
*
During the days that followed, the Scots Parliament sent their English counterpart a list of peremptory demands ranging from the enforcement of the Covenant and suppression of the Book of Common Prayer, to the opening of fresh talks with the King. Westminster, still desperately trying to present a full-scale invasion, tactfully replied that it would gladly maintain the said Covenant and would be honoured to join with the Scots in offering His Majesty the same Presbyterian-based terms it had presented so often before. Meanwhile, Gabriel went North with Lambert as planned, leaving Sir Thomas Fairfax to follow with the rest of the Army in due course.
To Jack and Venetia, keeping abreast of the news and finding themselves in unexpected accord – and to Sym Potter, tramping fruitlessly from tavern to tavern in search of Sir Ellis Brandon – it was becoming obvious that the discontent which had been simmering away for months was about to boil over. Feelings in the City were running as high as they’d done in the early part of 1642 – the only difference being that this time the target was the Parliament. Slogans were daubed on walls, under-employed apprentices roamed the streets in gangs and two thousand men from Essex marched into Westminster with a petition asking that the Army be disbanded and the King offered terms he could accept. A tidal wave was once more gathering and this time, as Jack grimly observed, there was nothing solid to cling to.
In the midst of all this, John Lilburne was finally summoned before the Court of the King’s Bench to present his appeal for habeas corpus. Bryony became suddenly charged with discreet vigour and bludgeoned Sam into taking her to see what could be
seen.
By the time they arrived, the portals of the Court were already inhabited by some two dozen people and more were coming up every minute. Sam winnowed his way through the crowd, peddling copies of A Prisoner’s Plea for Habeas Corpus as he went. Then there was a shift in the crowd and it parted like the Red Sea for Mr Lilburne and his gaolers. People shouted goodwill messages which Free-born John acknowledged with a smile and a lift of his hand; and when he caught sight of Sam and Bryony, he winked.
The doors of the Court started to close and the crowd immediately set up a vociferous demand for them to be left open which resulted in several minutes of hurried consultation within. Then the doors swung slowly back on their hinges and a pair of troopers stationed themselves uneasily in the space. The crowd tossed a few humorous remarks at them and then settled down to listen to the goings-on inside.
When asked who his counsel was to be, Mr Lilburne settled his spectacles on his nose and said, ‘I intend to make my own plea. There is not a lawyer in England who will dare say a quarter of what I wish to say for myself.’
‘Very likely,’ responded Justice Bacon sourly.
Free-born John knew how to hold centre-stage as well as any actor. He smiled and, suiting the action to the words, said, ‘By your leave, I shall state my case holding my plea before me as lawyers do their briefs.’
‘So long as you are brief, you may hold it howsoever you please,’ came the tart reply. ‘Begin.’
The substance of Lilburne’s appeal had a familiar ring, relying largely on the argument that, according to Magna Carta, the House of Lords had the power neither to try nor to incarcerate him. He spoke at some length, frequently playing to the crowd outside and pausing every now and then to emphasise a particular point by staring at the judges over the rim of his spectacles.