by Jane Feather
Cato raised his head and turned his frowning eyes upon the general. “Perhaps I still have hopes that the king can be brought to reason,” he said slowly, absently almost. “Maybe it’s a fool’s hope, but I’ll maintain it until I can no longer do so.”
There was a murmur, some of agreement, some not. Cromwell’s already heightened color deepened. “If you’re not with us, you’re against us,” he stated.
Cato shook his head with a dismissive gesture. “You know better than that, Oliver, and you gain little by making enemies of your friends.”
He pushed back his stool and stood up. “I have a militia to command. If we sit around debating such questions instead of fighting the war, this damnable strife will never be ended and the country will have good reason for believing that we have no interest in its ending. There are whispers already that some of us fight it simply for the power and influence it bestows upon us.”
He snatched up his cloak and stalked from the large square room, leaving a buzz of voices in his wake.
Cato had spoken without his customary tact, and he was aware of it. Cromwell could well have taken his last comment personally, but Cato’s mood was far from patient. He had ridden to headquarters after banishing the vicar from his parish, unable to rid himself of the image of Phoebe’s face, her eyes so filled with hurt and something akin to betrayal as he’d vented his fear-fueled rage. She’d looked like a wounded fawn. He’d been savage, he knew. His anger had known no bounds, and he despised that lack of control. But who would blame him? What man could view with equanimity his wife’s part in the morning’s debacle on the village green . . . could even begin to contemplate what could have happened to her?
What man with a wife like Phoebe wouldn’t be driven to distraction? he thought grimly, swinging onto his horse in the stable yard. If she would only conceive . . . a baby might slow her down somewhat, turn her thoughts and attentions to something other than this mad and impulsive need to rattle around the countryside offering help to all and sundry.
But that reflection was such a thorn in his side, he preferred not to dwell upon it. It was bad enough having Brian Morse under his roof, reminding him every minute of the day of what the future held if Phoebe remained barren.
“We goin’ back to Woodstock, m’lord?” Giles Crampton sounded as if the prospect were less than enticing.
Cato glanced up at the sky; there were still a couple of hours of daylight left. He needed action of some kind. Something to clear his head, to restore his equilibrium. “Not immediately, Giles. We’ll do a little scouting. See if we can’t scare up a few of the king’s men.”
Giles beamed, and turned to bellow the news over his shoulder at the small troop of Granville militia who’d accompanied their lord to headquarters.
Cato raised a hand and gestured that they should move out, and the small cavalcade trotted away down the driveway to the road.
“We’ll be takin’ the Oxford road, then?” Giles drew abreast of Cato.
“Yes, but away from the city. We’ll head towards Woodstock, but keep our eyes peeled for some excitement.”
Giles muttered his assent although he would clearly have preferred to have headed towards Royalist headquarters rather than away from them. And as luck would have it, they met neither Roundhead nor Cavalier on the road until they reached the woodland outskirts of Woodstock. The evening star was showing in a clear sky, and Cato drew rein, looking around, listening intently to the beginning night sounds.
“The woman they took up fer a witch, er cottage’s in the woods,” Giles volunteered, gesturing with his whip. “Mebbe we should ’ave a look-see, make sure there’s been no lootin’ or suchlike.” In the absence of real action, Giles would manufacture his own.
Cato nodded. He was curious to see where Phoebe had been spending so much of her time. Somehow, he had to find a way to understand her better. He still couldn’t lose the image of her stricken little face, her great blue eyes filled with tears she had fought to hold back. After what she had endured at the hands of the mob, after what she’d seen them do to her friend, he might have kept a rein on his anger, however justified.
“Cat . . . cat . . . where are you, cat?” Phoebe held up her lantern, hoping to catch the animal’s eyes in the light, as she circled Megs cottage. She was sure he was here somewhere, and Meg was so anxious about her companion, Phoebe didn’t think she could go back without at least being able to report a sighting. She had put out food and water for him so that he wouldn’t feel abandoned, even though he was quite capable of foraging for himself among the small woodland rodents.
When he suddenly appeared, however, stealthily coming up behind her on the path and brushing against her legs, she gave a little squeal of shock and nearly dropped the lantern.
“Oh, you gave me such a fright, cat!” She bent to stroke him and he wound himself around her legs, purring as if nothing had happened to disturb the customary orderly turning of his world. He allowed her to pick him up, and she stroked his head, wondering if he would permit her to carry him back to Meg at the manor.
As if in answer to her unspoken question, he leaped suddenly from her arms and stalked in leisurely fashion to the cottage, jumping upon a windowsill and inserting himself through the narrow opening she’d left for him in case he returned after she’d left.
He was all right where he was, Phoebe decided, not relishing the prospect of carrying a squalling, scratching animal the mile or so home. She’d come back in the morning and replenish his food and keep him company for a while. Meg would be easier in her mind now.
Phoebe picked up the basket she’d left on the front step. It contained the fresh mint she would use to make dressings for the worst of Meg’s wounds. The mint had a numbing, soothing effect. She also had mallow leaves for poultices and an assortment of herbs that Meg had listed to make the soothing drinks and jellies that would induce sleep and bring down the fever brought on by her exposure to the freezing elements.
Meg had no need of the leech, she was her own physician, and Phoebe was a competent physician’s assistant. She slung the basket over her arm, turned the key in the door and pocketed it, then set off down the path, holding her lantern high. It was growing dusk, but it was a clear, soft, early spring dusk, not threatening even in the rustling world of the woods.
As she reached the gate, however, she heard the chink of bridles, the clopping of hooves, a murmur of voices approaching through the trees. Phoebe froze, her heart hammering against her ribs, all her terror of the morning returning in full flood. Who could be coming here at this hour?
She darted back down the path to the cottage, the key in her hand, but before she could reach the door, the first horsemen appeared at the gate and a voice bellowed through the gloom, “Hold fast! Who has business here?”
Phoebe recognized the voice instantly. Giles Cramp-ton’s tones were unmistakable. She felt first relief and then dismay. If Giles was here, it was odds on that Lord Granville wouldn’t be far behind. They’d left together just before noon.
She would have to try to brazen it out, as Brian had suggested.
She turned back and said boldly, “It’s me, Giles.” Then she saw Cato. Her heart began to thump again despite her resolution.
“Phoebe, what in the name of the Almighty are you doing now?” Cato dismounted as he spoke. He came through the gate and down the path towards her, his step light and springing, the white collar of his shirt gleaming in the dusk against the dark leather of his buff tunic. He reached her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
For the first time, Phoebe found herself shrinking from him as he held her. A frown crossed his eyes, dark and glowing as they rested on her pale face.
“What are you afraid of?” he asked quietly.
“You.” Phoebe forced herself to meet his eye. “Don’t you think I have good cause, my lord?”
There was something both hurt and yet indomitable lurking in the depths of her eyes. “No,” Cato said. “You have no cause to be afr
aid of me.”
Phoebe dropped her gaze with an almost palpable air of disbelief.
Cato’s expression grew taut, but he managed his normal calm tones as he asked, “What are you doing here at this time of night, Phoebe?”
“Meg needs her medicines and she was worried about her cat. I came to feed him and make sure he was all right. He ran off when the crowd came this morning.” A slight shudder ran through her and she half turned from him as if to hide her expression.
Instinctively Cato moved a gloved hand up to clasp the back of her neck, his fingers closing warm and firm around the slender column. “Come.”
The men of the cavalcade were grouped together on the narrow track, their horses shifting, shaking their bridles as they sniffed the evening breeze. The men carried pikes and muskets at their saddles, swords thrust into their belts.
Phoebe hesitated as they reached them. “You have no need to interrupt your business, sir,” she said, her voice sounding stiff. “I can make my own way home.”
“No,” Cato said with finality. “You cannot.” He took Phoebe’s basket and lantern and set them on the ground. “Give me your foot.” He bent and cupped his palm. “Grab the pommel as I send you up.”
Phoebe scrambled into the saddle. She was wearing one of her old gowns and a threadbare woolen cloak missing its clasp, so had no fear of tearing anything. She settled astride, hitching her skirts up to her knees without giving a thought for exposed stockinged legs.
“We’ll head for home, Giles,” Cato instructed as he extinguished the lantern and left it behind the gate. He handed Phoebe the basket and then mounted behind her. “Let’s go, gentlemen.” He moved forward and the cavalcade followed in single file along the track.
Phoebe wanted to lean back against him, into the encircling embrace of the arm that held her. But how could she?
“There’s someone up ahead,” she whispered suddenly. Her ears were particularly acute and she’d heard what she was certain was the chink of a bridle. “Listen.”
Cato drew rein, signaling that his men should do the same. They all sat still, ears stretched into the darkness of the woods on either side of the track.
Then Cato heard it too, at the same moment that Giles raised a finger and pointed to the right. A twig cracked, then another. And then the faintest whicker of a horse. Then it was hushed and silent as the grave. Nothing stirred, not a squirrel, nor a rabbit, not a pheasant, not so much as a sparrow. And it was this silence, this total lack of ordinary sound, that told Cato they had company in the woods and it was company that didn’t wish to be discovered.
He stared frowning into the trees. If it was a royalist party, he should engage them. In ordinary circumstances he wouldn’t hesitate. He could feel Giles’s eagerness as the man drew close beside him on the narrow path.
But Cato could not do battle with Phoebe on his saddle.
Phoebe took matters into her own hands. She would not be a burden to him when it came to military decisions, whatever else he thought of her. She leaned back and mouthed against his ear, “I’ll wait up a tree. I’ve done it before.”
Cato’s teeth flashed white in the darkness. “So you have,” he murmured. “Get down, then.” He lifted her down to the path and Giles nodded with satisfaction.
Phoebe, still clutching her basket, slid into the trees to the left of the path. Whatever was going to happen would happen on the right, so she’d be out of their way. She felt a curious exhilaration mingling with her apprehension. Cato would be all right. She’d seen him in action. She had faith. No one could get the better of him.
She set the basket at the base of an oak tree with low branches and hauled herself onto the bottom branch. Her gown ripped under the arms as she reached upward to grab a higher branch. Phoebe gave a mental shrug. The dress was too small for her anyway.
She scrambled up until she could sit astride a branch that overhung the path. There were no leaves to obscure her view of the track below, and she leaned into the trunk so she wouldn’t be easily visible to anyone passing underneath. Her gown was a dull gray and blended well with the bark.
She was barely settled before the evening quiet was riven with sound. Yells, then the clash of steel, the violent thudding of hooves. And now Phoebe was no longer exhilarated, she was terrified. Why should she believe Cato would survive a hand-to-hand battle? What made him immune?
A volley of musket fire, the smell of cordite on the soft evening air. A barrage of shouts, a whole confusion of sound. Phoebe tried to imagine what was happening from the noise, but it was hopeless.
Suddenly she couldn’t bear to sit in her perch a moment longer. She had to see what was happening. She inched forward along the branch to give her room to swing her legs down to the branch below. Then she froze. Hooves thundered along the narrow track, coming away from the sounds of fighting.
Three horsemen hurtled along the path, spurring their mounts, whips slashing flanks as they urged the sweating beasts to greater effort. A gust of wind snatched at the plumed hat of the man in front. He reached to grab for it but it was lost, and his long, flowing hair cascaded free in the wind as they raced beneath Phoebe’s tree. For an instant she saw his face clearly. And then they were gone.
Phoebe almost fell from her perch in her excitement. As she reached the track, Cato with Giles and four other Granville men came galloping towards her.
“It was the king!” Phoebe shouted as they reached her.
“What!” Cato hauled back on the reins and his horse came to a rearing, plunging halt, the others following suit. “What did you say?”
“The king! He just went past here.” Phoebe pointed down the track.
“Are you sure?” Giles demanded, staring at her.
Phoebe’s chin went up. She said with that faint hauteur that Cato had noticed before, “Do you doubt me, Lieutenant? I assure you I’ve seen the king many times.”
Her tone had its effect. Giles looked for once a trifle discomfited. He coughed and then said, “We’d best be after ’im then, m’lord.” He kicked his horse and it leaped forward.
“Follow me!” he yelled to his men, and they galloped in pursuit of His Sovereign Majesty King Charles.
“They won’t catch them,” Phoebe said to Cato, who had not followed Giles. “They were going like bats out of hell.”
“I had an inkling,” Cato murmured, more to himself than to Phoebe. “When those three didn’t even stay to fight, I had a feeling one of them was of more importance than the rest. But fool that I am, it never occurred to me we had the king within our grasp.”
“I saw him clear as day.”
“Well, he’s away now,” Cato said with a vigorous oath. “And if I know anything, he’s heading for the Scottish border.”
This was a significant development. If Charles had fled Oxford and was heading for Scottish protection, it must mean he’d given up hope of prevailing against Parliament. He would surrender to the Scots, who would guarantee his safety and their support to regain his throne, in exchange for his commitment to establish the Presbyterian Church in England. A commitment Cato, from his knowledge of the king, was convinced Charles would not make.
He would prevaricate; he would negotiate; he might appear to agree; but in the end he would renege. The king’s false dealings with both the Irish and the Scots were well known. He was a supreme wriggler, a past master at the art of making and breaking promises, of twisting his own words and those of his advisors to make a simple statement suddenly mean something quite other.
“We lost ’im.” Giles’s disconsolate shout preceded his reappearance. “Vanished into thin air. Should we search the countryside, sir?”
“We don’t have enough men,” Cato replied. “And we need to attend to the wounded. Get Jackson and Carter to organize a litter party, and have the others escort the prisoners to headquarters. You accompany me back to the manor. I’ll write up a dispatch and you can take it straight off to headquarters.”
“Aye, sir.” Giles rode
back to where the sounds of fighting had now ceased.
Cato reached down a hand for Phoebe, who hopped for his boot, clutching her basket, as he pulled her up.
“You’re not hurt?” she asked, turning to look at him over her shoulder.
“Not a scratch,” he said, absently removing a twig from her hair before licking his thumb and wiping a smudge of dirt from her cheek.
“It was the tree,” Phoebe said.
“Yes,” he agreed, looking back down the path, a frown in his eyes.
“What would have happened if you’d caught the king?”
“Good question,” Cato said, his tone abstracted.
Phoebe didn’t press for further information. The exhilaration of excitement was wearing off and her brave front with it.
“Right y’are, sir.” Giles came up with them. “They’re seein’ to the litters. Job’s got a nasty sword gash, but the rest is minor, I reckon. The prisoners is on their way.”
Cato nodded and they started off back down the path towards the village.
“You think there’ll be talk at ’eadquarters, m’lord, about us lettin’ the king slip, like?” Giles ventured after a minute. His tone was unusually tentative.
“No!” Cato responded sharply. “Why should there be? We didn’t even know he was there.”
“Jest that I ’eard rumors, like,” Giles said with a shrug. “Like what not everyone’s fer gettin’ rid o’ the king.”
“You mean, like I’m not,” Cato said with a touch of acid.
“Well, summat like that.”
Phoebe was listening intently now. This touched upon what she had overheard last night in headquarters, the altercation between Cato and Cromwell that she’d listened to as she lay upstairs on the cot. It had sounded serious to her then. Now it seemed there were ramifications.
Cato and Giles appeared to have forgotten her presence on Cato’s saddle. “I’m not sure what I think, Giles,” Cato said with a sigh. “But I’m not going to rush to judgment. There’s too much at stake.”