“The king and Hamilton wanted to continue on, but they were overruled by yer kin, General Leslie, and his coterie,” Charlie replied.
“So ye’ll be caught here like rats in a trap,” Patrick said. “And, now, so am I.”
“We’ll get you out first thing tomorrow,” Charlie said. “Come, brother, and take my bed. A good night’s sleep is what you need. I must go now and be with my cousin.”
“I’ll nae argue,” Patrick responded. “I hae nae had a bed to sleep in since I departed Glenkirk several weeks ago.”
The Duke of Lundy led his younger brother to a small room down the hall from where they had been speaking. Charlie pulled Patrick’s boots off, and the Duke of Glenkirk fell gratefully into the bed.
“Where will ye sleep?” he demanded to know before unconsciousness claimed him.
“Trundle,” Charlie said and, blowing out the candle, left the little chamber. He then exited The Swan and hurried to the house where the king was billeted to tell him what Patrick had said about Cromwell’s forces, and that they would, in all likelihood, be at Worcester gates sometime on the morrow.
“He did not come down from that benighted land of his simply to give you a report on Cromwell’s army,” the king said astutely.
“Nay, cousin, he didn’t,” Charlie admitted.
“Then, why?” the king queried.
“It is typical of my family,” Charlie began with a smile. “My mother, in France now, has had a correspondence with my eldest brother, the Marquis of Westleigh. She sent Henry up to Scotland to get Patrick to come down to England to fetch me to safety. She did not send Henry because if he were seen in the vicinity of Your Majesty’s army, or person, it could reflect badly on him and on his family with the current government.”
Now the king was smiling with amusement. “Your mother is a very clever woman. She always was. The Scots brother would be expected to be with me, and so if someone sees him, it is not considered unusual.”
“Correct, Your Majesty. And even if Patrick were seen by Cromwell himself, my brother would be an unknown quantity, for he has rarely ventured forth from his beloved Glenkirk. I do not believe that even his own kin, General Leslie, would know him if they came upon one another. So Patrick was sent to plead my mother’s case. It has been a great sacrifice on his part, for his wife is expecting his heir and has undoubtedly had it by now. Patrick knew before he even came that I would refuse him his request. Still, he came, for our mother.”
“Mothers have a profound effect on their sons,” the king noted.
“I shall have to get Patrick out of the city as quickly as possible, for once Cromwell arrives, it will be difficult, if not impossible,” the Duke of Lundy told his royal cousin.
“Go with him,” the king said generously. “I would not have your mother think me heartless and selfish. She has lost her husband in my service. I cannot rob her of her sons. I did not know my uncle, Henry Stuart, but they say he was well liked by all who knew him and would have been a great king of England. It is also said that your mother loved him deeply, and had her own birth not been so mysterious, she might have been Queen of England, and you, now, its king.”
“While I have always grieved my father’s loss, cousin,” Charlie told the king, “ruling England has never been my desire, as you well know. I have been quite content being a country gentleman, and one day when all this is over, I will be again. My Indian grandfather, the Emperor Akbar, believed that we were, each of us, wherever we ought to be at a given time. I believe that, too, although,” he continued with a wry smile, “such thinking does not conform with the Solemn League of the Covenant, I fear. However, I think Your Majesty will not expose me to the kirk. Now, cousin, we are here because we are supposed to be here at this moment in time. Even my brother, Patrick. We will send him home as quickly as we can, but as for me, cousin, I will not leave you.”
The king did not speak for a long moment, but then he said, “If this goes badly, Charlie, I may have to send you away, and if I do, you must promise me that you will go. Without argument. We share a name. If you were killed, Cromwell’s people would trumpet the death of Charles Stuart. They would not bother to make the distinction between us. It could harm my cause.”
The Duke of Lundy nodded slowly. “I am Your Majesty’s most loyal servant,” he said. “God forbid that time come, but if it does, I will obey you.” Then Charlie knelt and, taking his cousin’s hand, kissed it. When he arose again, the king waved him back into his chair.
“Tell me the news about the delicious Duchess of Glenkirk,” he said with a twinkle in his amber eyes.
“She has probably delivered of her child by now. Patrick said little more than that. Ah, yes, she has spent the summer at her mother’s family seat restoring it. She has high hopes that one day when Your Majesty has come into his own again that she may convince you to give the family’s title to her second son.”
“There are no male heirs?”
“No,” Charlie explained. “Her grandfather Gordon was the last Earl of Brae. He had a son, but like me, bastard-born. Flanna’s mama was the heiress of Brae and was able to pass that title on to her daughter, but my sister-in-law is ambitious. She wants the earldom back for the Leslies of Glenkirk. She says that since her own family, the Brodies of Killiecairn, and her husband would not allow her to run about the Highlands recruiting troops for Your Majesty, the only accomplishment she can offer my brother is the restoration of that earldom for one of his sons. The ladies of Glenkirk who have come before Flanna have been rather unusual in many ways. She seeks to be something other than, as she so quaintly puts it, the do-naught duchess.”
The king laughed heartily, something he rarely did these days. “Cousin,” he told the Duke of Lundy, “you have my promise that when the day comes that I sit upon England’s throne again, I will restore the Earldom of Brae to your brother’s wife for her second son. Flanna Leslie made me laugh in that dark place called Scotland. And her young heart was a good one. And such generosity will cost me nothing, eh?”
Now it was Charlie who laughed. “Our grandfather said almost the exact same thing to Jemmie Leslie when he conferred upon him the Dukedom of Glenkirk,” Charlie explained. “He said that since the earldom already existed with its castle and lands, it cost him naught to make Jemmie a duke.”
“Blood will tell,” the king responded, wiping his tears of mirth away. “Ah, Charlie, I have not enjoyed myself so much in weeks. ’Odds fish, cousin, I cannot wait until we can restore the court and live decently once again.”
“Everything will happen in its time, Majesty,” Charlie promised.
In the morning, they discovered Cromwell at the gates of the town of Worcester. He had not been expected until late in the day, but the dawn came to reveal each of the city’s locked gates but one small one guarded from the outside. For the moment, there was absolutely no way in which Patrick Leslie could escape. He cursed softly beneath his breath when he was told what had happened. He did not want to die for this king. He wanted to be on the road north to his wife and family at Glenkirk.
The Earl of Derby had escaped into the city the night before with the news that his forces in Lancastershire to the north had been destroyed. The local gentry had not risen in an effort to aid the king. Cromwell, through taxation, had more than enough monies to pay for all the troops who would follow his banner. England’s king had nothing with which to pay his small army but the hope of his eventual restoration, at which time all those faithful would be rewarded. Men with possessions kept silent on their estates. Men with nothing flocked to Cromwell, who could reward them with each battle fought.
Cromwell’s forces moved to the south and southeast in an effort to cut off the king’s escape to London. The king countered by ordering the town’s four bridges over the Severn blown up; but while three were destroyed entirely, the bridge at Upton to the south was only damaged, and Cromwell’s forces were able to repair it in order to use it. The day after the Protector’s arrival, the
guns began to batter the town. The king kept the bulk of his men within the walled town, for there the narrow streets were a natural defense. To the west he sent three Scottish regiments to guard the confluence of the Severn and the Teme rivers. General Middleton forayed forth in a bold try to quiet their opponents’ guns. He failed, and lost many.
The Protector might have assaulted the city immediately, but he was a superstitious man. He waited until the third of September, the first anniversary of his victory at Dunbar, to mount an all-out assault. Patrick Leslie, caught inside of Worcester, decided that he would probably survive because it was not possible that he die on the same day as his father had died. Or was his God a deity with a sense of humor?
On the morning of September third, the king climbed to the top of the great square tower of the cathedral. He sanguinely observed Cromwell’s thirty thousand men arrayed before the city of Worcester. He gazed down on the town itself with its winding and narrow streets bordered by ancient medieval houses. His forces consisted of just about twelve thousand men. Charles II sighed, resigned. It would, indeed, take a miracle to win this battle, and he did not believe in miracles. Still, the battle must be fought.
He was the King of England and Scotland. He should have fifty thousand men at his beck and call, yet he did not. Why had they not told him that his own people were so frightened after the years of civil war that they would not rise in his support? Why had no one said that all that everyone wanted was simply peace? He did not understand, but he knew as he looked down from his observation post that many good men on both sides were going to die today. He knew that when the sun set over the Malvern Hills, he would still be king, but in name only. And he would probably be running for his life once again. If, indeed, he survived. He turned to his cousin, Charlie, who was the only person he had allowed to make the ascent with him.
“ ’Tis impossible,” the king said.
“Aye,” Charlie agreed.
“We need to have a plan,” the king began.
“When the time comes, sire, we will go through the Claps gate. Cromwell’s generals do not think that you will return north, and so that little, unimportant gate is virtually unguarded in order to allow the Scots who survive to be driven through it and back over the border,” Charlie told the king.
“Hmmmm,” the king murmured thoughtfully.
“You will have to go when they tell you to go, Your Majesty,” the Duke of Lundy said quietly. “There can be no argument.”
“And you must go when I tell you, Charlie,” the king replied, “and you must take your brother with you.” Charles II chuckled. “I do not imagine that Patrick Leslie is pleased to be caught here.”
Charlie smiled. “Nay, he is not,” he agreed.
Below them the guns boomed noisily. “We must go down,” the king said. “And you must leave as quickly as you can. Let it not be said that Cromwell killed two Charles Stuarts today.”
“I will make for France, cousin, and be in Paris ready to serve you when you arrive,” Charlie said. “I believe I can get there before you. Cromwell will set all his forces to seeking you, sire. He will not be looking for me, but I would far rather that you go than I.”
The two men descended the cathedral tower into the square where the king’s generals were awaiting him. The two cousins embraced, each wishing the other good fortune this day. Then Charlie hurried back to The Swan to alert his brother that they would be leaving immediately.
“And how the hell are we supposed to escape this chaos?” Patrick demanded angrily of his brother. “Look about ye, man! Panic! Fires! Frightened civilians terrified for their lives.”
“There’s a gate to the north that’s not well guarded,” Charlie said calmly. “I’ve been advised to leave that way.”
“So,” Patrick almost shouted, “it hae all come down to this! Ye will leave the king even before the battle is begun and concluded. Why could ye nae hae come to this decision before we got trapped here?”
“No Charles Stuart must die here today,” Charlie said with emphasis. “Think of the propaganda value if Cromwell’s people could claim that they killed Charles Stuart? It would make it a hundred times as difficult for the king to eventually return. He would have to prove he was whom he said he was and not some bloody imposter.”
“Yer cousin and his advisors might hae come to this conclusion sooner,” Patrick grumbled.
“If we depart now while the fighting is concentrated by the Fort Royal, we can escape through Claps gate and then turn west,” Charlie told his brother.
“Why west?” Patrick demanded. “I would go north.”
“And so will Cromwell’s forces after the battle is won,” Charlie said. “We go west because I have a friend who will shelter us until the worst is over. Then I intend going to Bristol and embarking on one of the family’s ships for France. You can come with me and then cross back over to Scotland, or you can decide your own path back; but for the next few days, we must hide in a safe place.”
Outside, they could hear the fighting beginning to spill over into the streets themselves. The Fort Royal fell. General Leslie, so discouraged as he remembered Dunbar, decided there was no hope and did not properly support the king’s men. Some of the soldiers began to throw down their arms in despair. The king, stripped of his armor now, attempted to no avail to rally his men. He had fought bravely all the day through, never sparing himself danger, and gaining the admiration of everyone, even his enemies. Now, however, the streets were beginning to run red with the blood of the dead and the dying. At dusk the king was finally convinced to flee himself and did so through the same gate that his cousin and the Duke of Glenkirk had earlier departed through. Night was now falling, and behind him the killing was still continuing as Cromwell’s forces rounded up the opposing forces and sought desperately to find the king.
Charlie and Patrick had left Worcester at mid-morning, taking advantage of the confusion and disorder about them. As they had been told, the Claps gate was unguarded, being a small gate. Several miles from the town, the brothers turned west toward Wales. Eventually the uproar behind them died, and there was only the sound of birdsong and animals as they rode cross-country. Charlie obviously knew exactly where he was going, and Patrick followed obediently alongside of his elder sibling. Finally, as the sun began to sink behind the hills ahead of them, they turned off the road. The barely visible track they now followed meandered on for several miles, ending before a dark stone house that appeared deserted.
They had just stopped when a shot rang out, and Patrick Leslie swore, grabbing at his shoulder in pain.
“Barbara!” Charlie shouted. “ ’Tis me, and you’ve just shot my brother, damnit!”
There was a long silence, and then finally the front door to the house opened. A woman ran out, flinging herself into the Duke of Lundy’s arms. “Oh, God, Charlie, I am sorry!” she exclaimed, and then she kissed him.
Charlie Stuart enjoyed the kiss for a brief moment, and then he untangled the clinging woman. “You have always acted without thought for the consequences, Barbara,” he said. “Now help my brother into the house, and I will stable our horses.”
With some difficulty, and wincing with pain, Patrick Leslie slid off his stallion. The woman put an arm about him, instructing him to lean on her as she aided him to gain the house.
“Which brother are you?” she asked him as she settled him in chair by the fire in her parlor. “The Scot from the look of you.”
“There are three Scots,” Patrick half groaned. “I’m the eldest. Patrick Leslie, Duke of Glenkirk, at yer service, madame.”
“Mistress Barbara Carver,” the woman said. “Hold still now while I get your jerkin off, my lord.”
“Do ye always shoot at yer visitors, madame?” Patrick demanded. He flinched as she removed his leather jerkin.
“The bullet is in your shoulder, my lord. I shall have to remove it,” she answered him, and she began to unlace his shirt.
“Ye’ll nae put a hand to me,
madame, until my brother is here in this room,” Patrick told her. “If ye hae some whiskey, I should welcome it. And ye hae nae answered my question.”
“These are difficult times, my lord,” Barbara Carver said softly. “It was dusk. I could not see who it was who approached my home. I am a woman alone but for an elderly servant.” While she spoke, she had moved to a sideboard that held decanters and drinking vessels. She poured something into a pewter dram cup and, coming to his side, handed it to him.
Patrick drank the whiskey down, his eyes widening with surprise as he recognized his own brew. “This is Glenkirk whiskey,” he said.
“Aye,” she answered him quietly, “it is. Your brother is very particular and saw that I had it for when he visited.”
“Yer husband?” Patrick asked.
“Dead for a number of years,” she answered him. “My father was a well-to-do merchant in Hereford. I have known your brother since I was a child, for my father serviced Queen’s Malvern, and I would often come with him when he delivered his goods. Lord and Lady de Marisco were very kind to me. When my father died, my mother remarried his senior apprentice. My stepfather did not want me. He planned to put me into service, but I was not raised to be a servant. Lady de Marisco learned of my plight. She arranged my marriage to Squire Randall Carver, a childless widower, some years my senior. He was very good to me, but sadly I produced no children for him. I was a good wife, my lord. Please, let me put a bit of whiskey on your wound. It will sting, but we must avoid infection.” She carefully tore his shirt away around the bloody wound. “Well,” she observed, “ ’twas a clean shot at least.”
He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. This was an absolutely ridiculous situation in which he found himself. “Ouch!” He blanched as she dabbed a small cloth on the open wound.
“Will he live?” Charlie demanded to know as he entered the room.
“The bullet must come out, but he would not have it until you were here,” Barbara Carver said.
“It’s going to hurt like hell, little brother,” Charlie said almost cheerfully. “Give him lots of whiskey, Barbara, and then we’ll get to work. The shoulder is nice and fleshy, Patrick, so nothing vital is in danger. You’ll remain a few days with Barbara to heal, and then you had best be on your way home. I have no doubt that Cromwell’s men will be out in force by the morrow, combing the countryside for royalists.”
Just Beyond Tomorrow Page 31