“I think it best that the church is sealed off for the time being. You and I can worship in the village, along with the rest of the household. If the church is repaired it will only happen again, until Carlisle and his heretics are captured.”
And then what will happen to little Simon? She thought silently. Will she be the only one left to care for him? She could not bear the thought, but she had to do something for Julia, something to keep her from hating her, even though it was too late for this world.
She was forced to wait until the excitement of the vandalism had died down and Father O’Neil had been buried with the honours of a martyr, before she could go in search of her nephew. If Charles was as important as Anthony had implied, she could not afford to be seen pursuing him and she knew no other way to find the child.
She set out as soon as Anthony had ridden off to visit the farms on the estate. She was quite certain the servants were watching her every move, but they would not be in a position to follow her, so it did not really matter. She thought it likely that Anthony was still afraid she might take herself to court and put Richard at risk.
She dare not take anyone with her, so she braved the quiet roads and forest paths alone. It was the first time she had ridden out on a horse without company. That was frightening in itself.
She followed the trail she had taken before to the remote farm where she had discovered her sister, but it seemed to be deserted. She dismounted and looked into all the empty cottages, her heart sinking. There was no sign of anyone; it looked like they had all fled or been arrested, she hoped the former. She climbed back into the saddle and was just about to leave when she noticed a figure standing at the doorway of the main farmhouse, his arms folded as he watched her suspiciously. It was Charles.
“What brings you here, My Lady?” He asked angrily as she approached. “Your husband has done untold damage to my family. Does he now send you to finish us off?”
“No!” She cried, shaking her head. She stayed mounted, feeling safer and knowing she could ride off quickly if the need arose. This man was angry, his demeanour threatening and he did not believe she had not been sent by his enemy.
“Julia is dead. She told me what you did for Summerville’s wealth and title; I hope you are content with your dirty bargain.”
“I know she is dead, Sir,” she answered bitterly. “I watched her die.”
His expression softened suddenly and he took one step toward her, then he offered his hand to help her down.
“You can dismount, My Lady,” he said quietly. “I will not harm you if indeed you speak the truth.”
She got down, more as a sign of good faith than with any feeling of confidence.
“I promise you, Mr Carlisle,” she said swiftly, “I have not seen His Lordship in many months. I came to enquire about the child, to be sure he is safe for Julia’s sake. That is all.”
He seemed to relax a little then and indicated that she should enter the house, but she shook her head. She had no wish to see the little boy, only to be sure of his safety.
“I will care for him, you may be sure of that. It is what she would have wanted. He is safe with me, so long as his father never learns of his existence.”
His father? She wondered then how, if he had ever laid eyes on the Earl, he could have any doubt as to the identity of Simon’s father. Perhaps he had not seen him, perhaps it was as Julia believed and he thought the child Sir Geoffrey’s. Would he continue to care for him if he knew whose child he was? He must have read her thoughts because his next words confirmed he was not as ignorant of the facts as Julia had believed.
“I know he is Lord Summerville’s son,” he said, “if that is what you are concerned about.”
“You know?”
“Of course. I am not blind, but his parentage is hardly the child’s fault and I love him as I would love my own. I will not blame the child for his birth, you can be sure of that.” He watched her for a few minutes, perhaps wondering if she had more to say. “I think it rather divine justice that the only son of the arch Papist should be raised as a Protestant.”
Despite her efforts to distance herself emotionally from her husband, she was offended on his behalf.
“I hope you have purer reasons for raising the boy than to avenge yourself on Richard,” she said angrily.
He gave a small, self deprecatory laugh.
“You have every right, I suppose, to suspect me of that. But rest assured, that is not my motive. That is merely a bonus.”
She realised suddenly that in telling him she had not seen her husband, she had said too much. He may well know that Richard was believed to be at court with his wife. Would he use this information against him? Of course he would, but she had no way to stop him. It was better not to draw attention to her mistake.
“Tell me one thing, Sir,” she began. “What had Julia done to become so prominent? You are here, you have survived. What did she do to draw attention to herself?”
“She was discovered helping a group of Protestants to flee to the coast.”
Just as her mother told her in her letter, the letter which Richard had found and told her to burn. Was it possible that her carelessness had caused all this? Was it possible he had returned to London with the information after all? How was she to guess, when she did not know the man at all?
“And it was you and your people who vandalised the church at Summerville, in retaliation?”
He nodded.
“Petty, was it not?” He said. “It was a personal revenge and not one I had any right to involve my people in. I am sorry about the priest though. He seemed a harmless little man.”
She felt a wave of relief at his words. He was not as ruthless as she had believed. The idea started to form in her mind suddenly, without any prior thought. Who would have believed when she set out to find her nephew that she would even have the courage to suggest it? She thought of nothing but Julia, of erasing the hatred from her eyes as she waited to meet her death. She wanted only to do something which would please her, something to bring back the love they once had for each other.
“The church will not be repaired,” she said quickly before she lost her nerve. “Not yet anyway. There is a little cottage in the forest just next to it and there is an underground passage from the house to the crypt.” Charles stood frowning at her. “Can we not do something with that?” She went on. “Can we not use it to help more Protestants out of England?”
Once more she had spoken without thought only this time she had no desire to grab back the words. Her sister had died for her beliefs, the Protestants needed more help, and it was within her power to help them. Who knows? She might just help Julia to rest in peace and look down from Heaven with a fond smile for her sister instead of the contempt she had displayed at the end. These were the things Bethany thought about when she made her suggestion, nothing else. She wanted to do her part for the cause, just as Julia had done. Only she did not intend to end up like her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Her idea had been to re-open the east wing of the Hall. It had been closed for many years and needed thoroughly cleaning as well as renovating. Nobody would question it, not even Anthony. Richard would not begrudge her the funds, Anthony knew that as well as she did, and as far as he was concerned it kept her busy and kept her mind off her sister’s death and her rival, Lady Rachel Stewart. He did not have to be ever vigilant lest she take off to London again and risk his cousin’s life in so doing.
But she needed many servants to help with the renovations. It was an enormous task and people came and went from the village, or so Anthony believed. It was extra money for the local people, it was work they could share and nobody would take any notice if a different team turned up from time to time. Nobody who mattered would notice the servants anyway. It was a perfect plan.
Charles was suspicious when she first suggested it. He did not trust her; he believed it to be some trap and he had every right to think so. Oh, how the Earl would have loved to
capture him!
“He will know,” Charles objected. “Do you realise what will be become of us? It is too dangerous, for our loyal Protestants to be evacuated right under his nose.”
But he grinned a little at the idea.
“How will he know?” She argued. “The priest is dead and will not be replaced. The church will be abandoned; the cottage is already abandoned. It will be the easiest thing in the world for my helpers to get to the church through the underground passage. No one will be watching, not in the middle of the night. It is far enough away from the house to go unobserved even in daylight, and is well hidden by trees.”
He began to rub his hands together in glee. He liked the plan, but she was a little disturbed by his relish at the idea of helping Protestants by using the house and property of their enemy. To use Summerville Hall, that Richard loved so much, for the purpose was the ultimate betrayal, but she had not thought of that until Charles pointed it out. She felt disloyal, felt like the worst traitor. But was it any worse than what he was doing to her, living in the palace with his whore, pretending to everyone she was his wife?
That was that then – she had no chance now to repair the damage, to keep to her bargain, dirty bargain though it was.
She wondered only fleetingly just what had possessed her to think of this plan. If anyone had asked, she would not have been able to explain. Was it knowing that Richard loved someone else and always would, loved her enough to risk everything for her? Or was it that look of sheer contempt in her sister’s eyes, even as she went to her execution. Even then she showed Bethany how much she hated her.
It took a few days to organise things and while it was being taken care of, Bethany made her own preparations, and those included gathering belladonna from the woods where it grew, if one knew where to look. She intended to keep a little pouch of the lethal berries with her at all times; if she were captured, she had no intention of spending her last moments screaming in agony.
She tried to sleep during the day to make up for the night’s activities, but it was never easy. She could not rest; she needed to supervise the renovations, to be sure they were not interfered with.
After a days work on the east wing, the people would retire to their straw mattresses on the floor, ready to begin work again the next day. What nobody realised was that in the early hours of the morning, they would be replaced by a new crew, escorted through the underground passage to the church and then into the little cottage in the woods where they would be questioned and their identity established. They would be given funds and sent by coach to Ipswich, where small boats waited to take them to France.
The man Charles had sent to be sure there were no spies was very thorough and very ruthless. His name was Martin; he was a tall, big built, working man whose only thought was to help Protestants. Any spies found amongst them would wish they had never come face to face with Martin.
He did not trust Lady Summerville, of that she was certain, and it was only Charles’ influence that kept him from doing her harm. He could not understand how the wife of the Earl of Summerville, of Mary Tudor’s right hand man, could possibly be on his side. And even while he wanted to believe, he did not approve of a woman going against her husband, even if her husband was a hated Papist.
At her waist hung a purse full of coin which would be dispensed to those who needed it; Richard’s coin. There was another purse, a leather one, which also hung from her waist. She had seen Martin eyeing it suspiciously before – he seemed to look at everything suspiciously – but this night he asked about it.
“What do you think it is?” She asked him.
“Who knows? A weapon, maybe.”
“Of a sort,” she replied thoughtfully. “It is belladonna.”
“Belladonna? For what purpose?”
“It is my insurance lest we get caught. You are welcome to help yourself should the need arise.” He was staring at her as though she had lost her mind. “I watched my sister die by fire, Martin. It is not a fate I intend for myself.”
His expression softened and for the first time Bethany felt he was beginning to trust her.
“You are a Countess,” he said quietly. “You are of the nobility and would go to the block.”
“Do you think so? I have heard the decision would be for my husband to make.”
“But he would not, not his own wife surely? Much as I hate the man, I cannot believe him capable of that.”
“Why not? He owes me no favours, especially now. It is a risk I will not take. Should the worst happen, the poison will be offered to anyone who wants it.”
“You say that as though you were offering fine wine.”
“It could be fine wine in the wrong circumstances.”
Did she mean it? Did she really think Richard would condemn her to the flames given the choice? Who knows but he might think he was sparing her the fires of hell. It is what the Papists believed, so she had heard, that by suffering death by fire, the heretics would be spared the torture of flames in Hell.
Martin and Bethany did not have to trust each other, or even like each other, but after this talk she felt safer in his company. They had only to work together to get these small groups to the coast and out of England.
They could not risk larger groups or someone at the house would become suspicious, but it meant every night she was in the little cottage till just before dawn making sure these poor wretches got away safely.
It was the worst year of her life as she suffered from exhaustion and even in the summer it was freezing in the little priest’s cottage. Each night she would leave her warm bed and go to the east wing where Protestants were waiting; she would lead them along the tunnel which led to the crypt of the church, she would tell them what was expected of them and what they needed to do. She missed Richard, thought constantly about what he might be doing at court and her heart still ached even after a year. Each night she felt more disloyal, each night she told herself firmly that she owed him no loyalty while knowing well that she did.
She could have no idea then that worse was to come, much worse.
She was exhausted and very tetchy when after the year of success, of no mishaps at all, Martin came into the cottage from the church, dragging behind him by her wrist a lovely young girl in fine clothing.
“She is a Papist!” He declared.
Bethany could not believe what she was hearing. Anyone less like a spy she could not imagine. The girl was little more than a child, and she was terrified.
“Why do you think she is Catholic, Martin?”
“She is French.”
“There are French Protestants, you know.”
“I do know, and I also know that while the King of France is happy to help our Protestants, just to annoy the Queen, he is still persecuting his own. So, tell me why a French Protestant would be so anxious to return to France. Then there is this!”
She gasped in horror and reached out a hand to stop him as he shoved his great hand into the girl’s bodice and came out with a huge crucifix on a chain.
“Leave us, please,” Bethany told him. She was not convinced this girl was any danger to the cause and she needed to be sure. This Catholic symbol was proof he was right, she was indeed a Papist, but a spy? She doubted it.
“Why? So you can let her go?” He asked angrily.
“Martin, whatever else I might need you for in this venture it is not to undermine my authority. Leave us. Now.”
She sat the girl down and took her hand.
“Well,” she said gently. “Is he right? Obviously you are Catholic, but what are you doing here and why are you among this group of loyal Protestants? You surely realised how dangerous that would be.”
“I had to get away,” she murmured quietly. “I heard from my servants about people helping Protestants to get to France and I thought it would be my only chance to get back to my family. I should have left the cross behind, but I could not. I felt that I would have no protection without it.” She gave a little grin.
“Ironic, eh?”
She spoke perfect English with only a tiny hint of an accent, which was just as well since Bethany’s French was sadly lacking.
“What do you need to get away from? You are only a child. What is your age?”
“Fourteen.”
“And your family is in France? Why are you here?”
“I was sent here to be married,” she replied quietly. “It is my husband I need to get away from. I do not expect you to understand nor to approve.”
If only she knew!
“Is he unkind to you? Is he violent?”
“He is a deviant. He has damaged me in ways I am too ashamed to reveal.”
“Forgive me. I shall need more than that if I am to persuade Martin to allow you to travel with the others.”
She looked uncomfortable and very embarrassed, then she removed her cloak and slipped the shoulders of her bodice down to her waist. On her back and across her breasts were the scars left by a whip. Some were healed, some were fresh and one or two were still bleeding. Bethany pulled her clothing back to where it belonged and wrapped her cloak about her. Martin was going to take her along, whether he liked it or not.
The girl flinched and drew a quick breath and a similar sound came from the doorway. Martin had been listening, as she assumed he would be. He did not trust her to make life or death decisions and she knew he always listened in, but this time she was glad of it and she could see he agreed with her.
“If you intend to send me back to him,” the girl was saying, “I would prefer you give me to your Martin.”
When the group had left and Bethany had heard the carts taking them away she sat before the dying embers of the fire, remembering the girl’s words and feeling pleased that they had been able to help her. She smiled as she imagined the girl’s husband when he found she had gone, when he realised he would have to seek out another victim.
She said a little prayer for her future before sleep overcame her.
***
Richard had toyed with the idea of going home for some weeks before finally deciding. He had not seen his wife for a year and although Rachel had stopped trying to persuade him to tell her the truth, he had begun to think himself that it might be best. He had admitted a long time ago that he loved Bethany, and his attempts to push her away had been for her own sake. But he could not bear to think of her alone and believing he loved someone else. That was selfish, because he had wanted her to think less of him and this was the ideal way to do it, but still he did not want to hurt her.
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