Civil Conflict

by Oliver, Marina

  She raised her eyebrows enquiringly, but he did not elaborate, except to claim it was something that, if successful, would do more for the country than the past few years of fighting had achieved. They went on to other topics, and the day passed uncomfortably for both of them. Tom left the following morning, having obtained Lysbeth's promise not to say anything to his parents of their quarrel. Reluctantly she had agreed, but knew deep within herself she could not now marry him, feeling as she did about Sir James. Even if she could have brought herself to marry Tom without love, she knew his suspicions of her would ruin any happiness they could find.

  *

  A few weeks later, Lysbeth heard her aunt was completely well, and the letter suggested she should join her aunt and uncle at her cousin's house, a few miles to the north of Oxford, for the Christmas celebrations. Lysbeth viewed this prospect with much relief. She naturally wished to see her aunt and uncle again, and it would remove her from the uncomfortable situation at the Bridges'.

  She planned to go at the beginning of December, and Tom came home a week before she set out in order to escort her. Again she repeated she could not marry him, but by now he had decided hers were the natural fears of a bride-to-be, and he did not argue with her, merely accepted what she said, and continued to behave in exactly the same way as before, as if their betrothal were still a fact. Lysbeth hesitated to approach Mistress Bridges, knowing it would upset her greatly that she and Tom had quarrelled, and feeling somewhat cowardly, Lysbeth decided that once she reached her cousin's she would write and explain the situation.

  Lysbeth set off, and before Tom left her at her destination he promised he would visit her soon. Lysbeth tried to discourage him, but he insisted, and she shrugged and left it.

  Her reunion with her aunt and uncle was joyful, and her aunt was in good spirits. They had a merry time for the next few weeks. Lysbeth told her aunt much of her adventures after Naseby. She had written of these, but her aunt had many questions to ask her. Then she told of her attempt to break off her betrothal, and her aunt, sympathising with her, assured her no one could force her to marry Tom, and she and her uncle would attend to it.

  'Do not write until after Christmas, then if you write to Tom's parents I will do the same, and make it clear to them the betrothal is certainly at an end. Now forget it, and enjoy the festivities.'

  Lysbeth hugged her gratefully, and threw herself into the Christmas celebrations with vivacity, though her enjoyment was spoilt by moods of depression which she put down to the fact that it was Christmas without her family. Certainly she did not regret the breaking of her betrothal, having realised she had never loved Tom, and the friendship they had enjoyed would never satisfy her in marriage.

  So the days passed, and the twelve days of Christmas were drawing to an end when the unexpected arrival of Tom disturbed her once more. He came unannounced on the morning of Twelfth Night, and asked for Lysbeth. Not knowing who it was, she went into the parlour, and stopped short when she saw him standing by the fireplace.

  'My dear!' He came across the room to her holding out his arms, but she avoided his embrace.

  'No, Tom. Have you not accepted yet that I cannot, will not, marry you?'

  'Lysbeth, are you still being obstinate?' he asked in some annoyance, and she began to repeat the weary arguments.

  Fortunately, her uncle had also been told of Tom's arrival, and he soon entered the room, putting a stop to their arguments. Thankfully, Lysbeth escaped, and an hour later her uncle came to search her out.

  'I have made it plain to the young man the betrothal is at an end. As your next of kin, I have told him I will not consent to the marriage. I think he will not trouble you again.'

  'Oh, thank you, Uncle John. 'Tis a relief to have it settled.'

  'But I am afraid he is still here.'

  'Still here?'

  'It appears he is travelling to Oxford, and we could not in charity turn him out. He is to stay the night, and will travel on in the morning. But he has promised not to upset you.'

  Lysbeth looked doubtful, as if she mistrusted such a promise, but there was nought she could do about it, so perforce she accepted the situation.

  That night, the last of Christmas, the celebrations were even merrier than usual. The servants joined the family and their guests in the hall after supper had been served, and they were entertained by mummers from the village, who also joined in the games that were played afterwards. These became more and more energetic, and everyone was drinking freely. Tom, who had avoided Lysbeth earlier, now came across to her when she was sitting down for a moment's rest, and sat on the settle beside her.

  'Lysbeth, must it really be over?' he pleaded, his speech somewhat slurred.

  'Tom, I am truly sorry, but it would not have done.'

  He nodded mournfully. 'I am sorry too, Lysbeth. You are a comely wench, and I envy the man you do marry, but I wish you well.'

  'Thank you, Tom.' Lysbeth was relieved he had finally accepted the situation, and began talking to overcome the slight constraint between them.

  'You say you journey to Oxford?' she asked. ' 'Twill be a cold journey.'

  'Aye, the roads are hard with frost, but I must meet the Scots there.'

  'The Scots?'

  He looked at her with a cunning expression on his face, and she realised he was more fuddled than he had at first appeared.

  'Which Scots will you meet?' she asked quietly.

  'Oh, from the Con – Covenanters,' he stammered. 'We meet secretly.'

  'In Oxford? The Royalist city?' she asked, realising there was something most strange in this.

  He giggled suddenly. 'Where else would we go when we want the King?' he asked.

  Lysbeth waited, knowing he would go on.

  'You remember, when I said I had to visit people?'

  'Yes,' she said gently.

  'These are some of the people. 'Tis a goodly plot we have concocted.'

  'To get the King?'

  'Aye.' He grinned foolishly.

  'What good will that do?'

  'Why, if we hold him prisoner, he cannot fight us any more.'

  'You cannot hold him prisoner in Oxford.'

  'Oh, silly wench. We do not intend that. We will take him to Scotland.'

  'But what use would this be?'

  ' 'Twould end the war.'

  'His followers would fight on to rescue him.'

  'No. We would make him sign a declaration the war was over, that he accepts Parliament's demands. Mayhap he will not be able to sign. That would be simpler.'

  'You mean he would be killed?'

  A gleam of caution came into Tom's eyes. 'Not deliberately,' he assured her. 'We mean him no harm.'

  'How will you get him? Surely he is well guarded?'

  'When he rides out of the town to inspect the troops at their posts, we shall ambush him. 'Tis all planned.'

  Lysbeth beckoned a servant and asked for more ale, which he brought. She gently took the empty tankard away from Tom and pressed the full one into his hands. He drank thirstily.

  'When is this to be?' she asked.

  'In two days' time.'

  Then, despite her further questions, he would say no more, and she regretted forcing the extra ale on him. He slipped down further on the settle, and appeared to sleep, rousing to look severely at her.

  'No one must know. 'Tis a great secret,' he said, and quaffed the rest of the ale. He was soon asleep, propped uncomfortably in the corner of the settle, and by then the festivities were coming to an end.

  Lysbeth made her way thoughtfully to bed, and before she fell asleep had decided that on the morrow she must ride to Oxford and warn the King.

  *

  Chapter 13

  On the following morning Lysbeth carefully slipped out of the house at daybreak, making certain no one saw her. She saddled and bridled her horse herself, and led him cautiously out of the stableyard and along the lane until she came to a stile she could use as a mounting block. The ground was f
rozen hard, for there was a most severe frost that winter, and Lysbeth had to ride cautiously, allowing her mount to pick his own way most of the time, but late in the morning she reached Oxford, and enquiring of passers-by where the King lodged, she was directed, and found her way there.

  On reaching the King's lodgings she was fortunate enough to meet one of the courtiers she had known from the earlier days in Oxford.

  'Why, Mistress Lysbeth,' he greeted her, 'to what do we owe this pleasure? I did not know you had returned to Oxford.'

  'Mr Morden! How glad I am to see you! I need to speak with the King. Can you aid me?'

  He looked curious, but nodded. 'I think so. Come with me and I will discover whether he is occupied.'

  He led Lysbeth into a small anteroom, and called a servant to bring wine. She was very cold after her slow ride through the bitter weather, and she was heartily glad of the bright fire that burned in the fireplace. She drank the wine gratefully when the servant brought it, and waited as patiently as she could until Mr Morden returned after about half an hour.

  'Well?' she asked him, springing up from the chair where she had been sitting in front of the fire.

  'His Majesty will give you audience in a short while. He is writing letters at the moment.'

  'Oh, thank you, Sir! 'Tis indeed good of you to help me.'

  Lysbeth smiled and reseated herself, and Mr Morden drew up another chair and sat facing her across the hearth. 'What do you in Oxford, Mistress Lysbeth?'

  'I do not stay in Oxford itself,' she answered, 'but with my cousin near by.'

  'And now you pay us a visit? We are most pleased to see you.'

  Lysbeth did not wish to reveal the object of her visit to anyone except the King, and she found Mr Morden's questions somewhat difficult to parry, but he soon turned the conversation on to herself, and began to compliment her. She responded automatically to his flirtatious remarks, but she was obviously preoccupied. It was a relief to them both when a servant came and spoke aside to Mr Morden. When the servant had gone, Mr Morden came over to her.

  'I am afraid I must leave you for a while. 'Tis urgent business I must attend to. I do apologise for leaving you on your own, but someone will come to fetch you when the King is free.'

  Lysbeth smiled graciously, and he left the room, leaving her to her reflections. She was musing over her feelings towards Sir James, and did not realise the passage of time. It was, in fact, well over two hours before the King sent for her, but she had not thought very carefully about what she must say to him, and she tried to marshal her arguments as she followed the servant along the corridor to the King's study. She was announced, and she dropped into a deep curtsy immediately inside the door.

  'Come, my child, 'tis some time since we met. It gives me pleasure to welcome you again to Court. What can I do for you?'

  She looked up to see the small, neat man who was her King sitting behind a large oak table. He was smiling at her, and she realised afresh the charm she had felt on the few previous occasions when she had met him, though this time he looked worried behind the smile. Obeying his beckoning hand, she rose from her curtsy and walked towards him.

  'Sit here, Mistress,' he said. 'I have been unable to express my deep sorrow at the loss of your brother.'

  Lysbeth inclined her head. ' 'Twas a grievous loss for me, Sire,' she replied quietly, 'but Arthur was content to die for you.'

  The King sighed. 'Too many have died for me. However, you came, I understand, with a message?'

  'Not a message, precisely,' she said slowly. 'It is something I discovered last night. I felt you ought to know.'

  'Go on,' the King ordered gently.

  'I discovered from a – a friend, that there is a plot to capture you, hold you prisoner, and take you to Scotland. 'Tis some of the Parliament troops working with some of the Scots Covenanters. They are already in Oxford.'

  King Charles frowned. 'Forgive me, Mistress, but no one who was concerned with such a plot would blab of it.'

  'It is true, Sire, I assure you 'tis so,' she said earnestly. 'The friend who told me was drunk, and he knew not what he said. I believe him to be speaking the truth.'

  The King smiled at her calmly. 'There are many such plots, my dear. If I believed all of them I would never stir from my room. I would become a prisoner in truth.'

  'Sire, they plan to ambush you as you review the outposts.'

  The King nodded as though humouring her. 'I thank you for your care of me, and for your warning,' he said, 'but do not be concerned, I am well protected, and this will not be the first such plot. The others have been foiled, and you may rest easy this will be too. Now if you will excuse me I have much work to attend to.'

  He rose, and Lysbeth perforce did the same.

  'Your Majesty, I beg of you to believe me!' she attempted once more, but to her dismay realised that though the King was courteously nodding to her, he did not appear to be taking her seriously. He rang a small bell on the table, and immediately the doors opened. He held his hand out to Lysbeth, and as she curtsied she kissed it.

  'I thank you, Mistress Fenton,' he repeated, then turned to a servant who was standing just inside the door. 'Fetch Sanders,' he ordered.

  Lysbeth, despair in her heart, went slowly from the room, and stood a little way along the corridor, not knowing quite what to do. The servant glanced at her curiously as he shut the door of the study.

  'Can I help you, Ma'am?' he asked, but Lysbeth shook her head and moved on down the corridor, unseeing, not knowing where she went. She turned a corner, and after a few yards came to a window with a deep windowseat. She sank on to it and bowed her head, then the impossibility of convincing the King of his peril swept over her, and she quietly began to sob.

  *

  Her grief was so intense she failed to hear the footsteps coming along the corridor, and was startled when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up in alarm, and beheld Sir James looking down at her in concern.

  'Why, Lysbeth, what is it? Tell me.'

  He sat beside her and took both of her hands comfortingly in his. 'Tell me,' he repeated, and Lysbeth poured out the story to him.

  'The King does not believe me, I know he does not. Please, will you try to convince him?'

  'Who was it told you of this plot?' Sir James asked, for Lysbeth had not mentioned Tom.

  ' 'Twas Tom Bridges. He came to my cousin's house yesterday, and he was drunk. I have never seen Tom drunk before, but he told me this. He had hinted of some plot a few weeks ago, but it was only last night I discovered what it was. Oh, please, James, warn the King, try to make him pay heed!'

  He smiled down at her reassuringly. 'I will do my best, do not fear. Leave it to me. But what will you do now? Where are you staying? Who is with you?'

  'I am staying at my cousin's house at Witney. I shall ride back now I am sure you will help me.'

  'Who came with you?'

  'I came alone. I could not tell anyone, or betray Tom.'

  She smiled tremulously up at him. 'Thank you, Sir James. If anyone can convince the King, you can.'

  'Wait here,' he said, 'and I will see what I can do. I will return soon and ride back with you. 'Twill be dark ere you get there.'

  He stood up and moved away, and Lysbeth looked after him, love and longing in her eyes, but after a few moments the thought of Mary Ambrose came to her, and she stood up in some dismay. She dared not remain here and be in Sir James's company for too long. She realised she would be unable to conceal her love from his penetrating gaze. She had already called him 'James' in her distress, and her pride rebelled against showing a hopeless love for a man who was in all probability betrothed to someone else. She walked hastily along the corridor and found a servant, who directed her to the stableyard. She retrieved her horse, mounted, and set off the way she had come.

  The roads were iron hard, and slippery with ice, and she had to take great care to keep her horse from slipping. She had ridden for about two miles, and gradually her misery had
overcome her, so that her attention had wandered from the task of guiding her horse. When a bird rose with a great flapping of wings from the ground beside them, she was unprepared. Her horse, startled, shied, and slipped on the icy ground, falling to his knees and unseating Lysbeth, who fell to the ground and remembered nothing else as blackness closed over her.

  Some time later, her senses began to return to her. She experienced a swaying motion, and before she was fully sensible, realised she was being carried in someone's arms. Then she felt herself laid gently on to something soft, and heard a familiar voice, but the words Sir James uttered were such as to convince her she was still dreaming.

  'My beloved, wake up,' he was whispering. 'Oh, my dearest little love!'

  At that moment Lysbeth felt his breath on her cheek, and he kissed her gently on the mouth. Her eyelids fluttered, and she opened her eyes to stare up into his. With a sigh of relief he straightened.

  'Thank God you have recovered consciousness.'

  'Wha – what did you say to me? James, oh, my dearest, did you – do you – '

  He looked down at her. 'Be still,' he said gently. 'You have a large lump on your head, though no bones are broken. But you have been unconscious for several minutes. Rest quietly.'

  'I – no, I cannot.' Lysbeth tried to struggle up, but was gently held back. 'Did I dream it?' she asked, a pleading look in her eyes, begging him to say no.

  'I am sorry, Lysbeth,' he said quietly, with no expression in his voice. 'I should not have said those things to you. I was concerned and overwrought. I forgot for a moment. I had not intended you to hear them.'

  'Not meant? But why? Oh, James, why?'

  His eyes narrowed in surprise. 'You have made your choice, Lysbeth. You are betrothed to Tom Bridges. I would not for the world disturb your happiness.'

  She shook her head wonderingly. 'I am not betrothed to Tom any more. I realised I did not love him. But you, I thought – what of Mary?'