“Mama,” the child was saying. “Where is Mama?”
“Hush, now, darling,” a female voice replied. “You come with me lest you wake your papa.”
Charles frowned, wondering where Julia was, then remembered she had led the refugees last night. Birdsong drew his attention to the obvious fact that it was daylight and Simon was asking for his mother. She had not returned.
Once again he tried to haul himself up, once more he tried to roll out of the bed, his heart hammering in panic and praying to God that he was still asleep and dreaming. But he had not the strength to move and the pain in his shoulder tore through him just as though he was being shot all over again.
A creak on the stair drew his attention and he prayed it was her, it was Julia returned at last. But no; it was Thomas, his friend who did not help with the evacuation, who was illiterate and incapable of displaying the sort of authority needed to get to the ships.
“Julia,” Charles whispered hoarsely.
Thomas shook his head slowly.
“She has not returned,” he mumbled. He went to the table and poured ale for Charles, took it to the bedside. “Nobody has returned.”
Charles cursed this damned wound which would not allow him to get himself out of this bed. He had to go, he had to find her, find out what had happened.
“Help me up,” he said, holding out his hand.
Thomas took it and pulled him into a sitting position, then steadied him as he swung his feet to the ground. Charles felt stiff from lying so long and giddy from the loss of blood and he closed his eyes for a moment, then reached out for his jacket. Thomas helped him put it on.
“Should you be getting up?” He asked. “Julia would not want you to get up.”
“Julia is not here, is she?” Charles demanded, catching back the tears which were clear in his tone. “She is in danger and I need to find her.”
“And what about Simon?”
This voice was a woman’s, Emily who lived in one of the cottages, who had taken the little boy away and fed him while Charles was still waking up. He had not heard her tread on the creaky staircase; he was too worried and he hurt too much.
“You care for Simon,” he replied. “You will? You will look after him for me?”
“I will, but you will not be back if you leave here still with that wound. You must let us help you recover and you must send someone else to learn the news.”
She was right, damn it! He knew she was right but he could not bear to stay here, helpless, doing nothing while his beautiful wife was in so much danger. He did not trust anyone else to discover what had happened. How could he? Had there been anyone else capable he would have forbidden her to go at all and now all he could do was contemplate what life would be like without her.
She would be taken to prison, she would be interrogated, asked about the rest of the group, asked to betray them all and she would suffer untold horrors rather than do that. He recalled the tales he had heard about Anne Askew, the Protestant preacher who had been tortured till her limbs were dislocated and still she would not give them the answers they wanted.
He felt hot tears clouding his vision and wished they would all leave him alone so he could pray for her safety and weep for her loss.
***
“Go back!”
Julia heard the voice as the cart drew to the edge of the forest. They had come by the rough dirt track through trees for cover and were just emerging when the voice rang out. The voice was familiar, very familiar but Julia shook herself.
She knew at once who it was and assumed he was talking to his own men, but why would he be telling them to go back? It made no sense. All she knew was that these people were depending on her to get them to the ships tonight, before it was too late. If they were missed by their own neighbours, some of whom were ardent Catholics, they would be suspected and investigated.
She sat and waited for more voices, more warnings which may or may not be meant for her. Her heart jumped painfully when a tall figure on horseback rode through the trees on the other side of the road; he did not see her, but she saw him. It was Richard Summerville and he seemed to be trying to lead the soldiers away from the group and after him instead.
But it was too late. Soon the soldiers appeared and she had no time to turn the cart or ride away before they were upon them. All Julia could do now was pray and that is what she did, prayed for a quick death. She could not know her prayers would be answered, and by an unexpected hand.
As they were led away to Caister Castle before being moved to London, Julia’s thoughts were a jumble of memories of the joys and trials of her life. She had heard if the condemned recanted, declared themselves Catholic, they would be spared and she knew that is what Charles would have her do. She was unsure about that. Bethany would do it without hesitation, just as she had given up everything she held dear for the wealth on offer, but what about Julia? Did she want to be a martyr? Could she face the flames? She shivered with fear, told herself God knew what was in her heart.
Cranmer had recanted when his courage failed him, but it had not saved him. Mary had not believed him, but would she believe a farmer’s wife, a woman too young to know her own mind? As it turned out, she was not given the choice.
Julia was taken to a small room where she was questioned for hours by a bishop who was not concerned whether she chose to recant; all he wanted to know was how to find Charles Carlisle.
So she had no choice, after all. She was not to be given the option of recanting, not unless she gave up the man she loved and all their friends with him. She would not do it, could not do it. She had heard of people dying of fright and wondered if she might be fortunate enough for the fear to stop her heart. She felt terrified enough for that; she had never been so afraid in her entire life.
She was given no food or drink and not allowed to relieve herself. She tried to hold on, but the warm flow soon soaked her skirt and made her feel even more miserable.
“Tell us where he is, Mistress, and you will be given refreshments and you will go free.”
“I do not know him,” she replied feebly. “I have told you and told you. I was on the road, alone and on foot, looking for a place to sleep for the night when the cart came. They were but giving me a ride, nothing more. I do not know this man of whom you speak.”
She could see the Bishop’s fat little fingers clenching into a fist, his ruby rings sparkling in the candlelight. Candlelight? Had she been here that long? She was dizzy and faint and could feel the chill of cold urine beneath her.
“You expect me to believe that a woman such as yourself was living out, a street dweller? Your hair is clean, your body is clean, even your teeth are white. You are lying and not very well.”
She wondered why this so-called holy man did not use physical force, but perhaps this was worse. She would never tell him where Charles was, no matter what he did to her.
Her thoughts went to Anne Askew, a Protestant preacher who gave her life to satisfy King Henry’s persecution, who bore the dubious distinction of being the only woman ever to be tortured on the rack. They had to carry her to the stake because they had dislocated all her limbs in their efforts to make her condemn Queen Catherine Parr as a heretic.
Mistress Askew was a martyr to their cause and would have been a saint had she been Catholic. The Pope believed he had the power to make saints, to elevate mortals to a special status in paradise; the Protestants had no such arrogance. They could only revere Anne’s memory and remember her courage. If she could resist them, so could Julia. What she had so far suffered was comfort compared to that.
“Very well,” the Bishop said. “I am going to have my dinner. Perhaps hunger and thirst will loosen your tongue by the time I return.”
She was hungry and thirsty, but more than that she was more tired than she had ever been in her life before. She was relieved as she watched him go, then laid her head on her arms on the table and closed her eyes; but she was not to be allowed to sleep. One of the gua
rds slammed his hand onto the table beside her head to wake her, then he left the room, muttering something to the other guard as he went. Probably going to the privy; he would not have to sit in his own urine while it grew cold and chilled his body.
She laid her head back down and tried to pray, but the words would not come. They were chased from her mind by thoughts of the horrifying death which awaited her, when she would be tied to a wooden stake and flames would rip through her skirts and sear her flesh. Her only hope was that the smoke might fill her lungs and choke her before she suffered too much, or that some kind soul might hang a bag of gunpowder around her waist to hasten her end.
There was no hope of rescue; had she been able, she might have recanted to save her life, for the sake of the people who loved her, for Charles and her little son. But they knew who she was; they knew she had been driving the cart and they had been expecting Charles, so it was obvious she was one of the leaders too.
Tears flooded from her eyes and onto her hand, but she made no move to wipe them away. That was when she felt someone beside her, felt a hand beside her ear and opened her eyes to see that hand putting a little clay bottle on the table.
She looked up to see the other guard smiling gently.
“It will not save you,” he whispered. “But it may make things easier.”
“What is it?”
“Smells like poppy juice, enough to numb the senses at least. Likely enough to finish you off if you are so inclined. You are advised to drink it all, but not too soon.”
“Thank you.”
“No need to thank me; I was well paid to take the risk.”
She frowned, puzzled about who would do such a thing. Someone who could not help but wanted to, someone with enough money to be able to persuade this simple guard to risk his own safety to ease her way out of the world.
She recalled the night it had all gone wrong, the night she was arrested and the tall figure whose horse raced through the trees in a vain attempt to draw attention away from them, perhaps cause the soldiers to leave them and follow him. She recalled the familiar deep voice telling them to go back, but it was too late.
The last time she had heard that voice it was swearing fidelity and devotion to her sister in the small village church near her father’s country house. A wave of gratitude washed over her as she tucked the vessel into her sleeve and laid her head down again, fell asleep wondering how she could take the potion without being seen.
***
It was a rough journey back to London and Julia had been given some sort of porridge and some dirty water before being thrust into the waiting coach with others. The soldiers did not want her to die of thirst before they got her to Smithfield. She was wet, cold and uncomfortable and sure she must stink of urine, but these good people had worse things to concern them.
They had left Caister after dark and most of them were exhausted, but there was no way to sleep on the hard bench and rickety, swaying vehicle. There were narrow, horizontal slits in the sides of the coach, up high near the ceiling, which would be the only source of light were it not pitch black outside.
It was silent in the coach, nobody spoke. There was nothing to say really, nothing at all. Many of them prayed, but Julia only closed her eyes and held tight to the bottle concealed within her sleeve.
As the vehicle drew to a stop, she was able to stand and see through the narrow slits that they had come straight here, to Smithfield, that the faggots were already being laid and as her friends stepped down one by one, their arms were grabbed by rough guards and pulled back, their wrists tied tightly behind their backs.
This was her chance, her only chance to drink the potent drug her former lover had smuggled into the castle for her. For the first time she wondered why. Was it for his wife’s sake? Was it for the sake of that one afternoon they had spent in his bed, when he showed her what it felt like to be desired and wanted by a handsome and virile man?
Whatever it was, he had risked a great deal to do it. His face was well known, he could be easily recognised and the guard would have had to be very well paid to keep quiet. It was a small mercy, but Julia was grateful for it.
She turned away from the doorway and pulled the clay bottle from her sleeve, pulled the cork and tilted back her head to drink the contents. It was a nasty, bitter taste, but she began to feel the effects straight away. She would have to be carried if they did not get on with it, as the drug was already taking hold.
The prisoners were all loaded into an open cart, much like the one she had been driving when the soldiers caught them, only in this one they all had to stand. Everything was beginning to blur and Julia was not sure how long she could stand, especially with the rocking from side to side as the horse pulled them over the rough road.
She could smell burning flesh, a sick, sweet smell, she could hear screams and she could see hundreds of people and hear their cheers. What were they cheering for? Did they not realise they could be next? It would not take much for the Fanatic to turn on all her subjects.
Then she heard her name being called. She took no notice at first, thinking this drug she had been given must have some sort of hallucinatory powers. But it came again, as clear as the screams from the condemned: ‘Julia!’
The voice was familiar and closer now; Julia turned, looked down to see a woman, a beautiful woman with dark hair and dressed in beautiful clothes, her gloved hands clutching the side of the rough wooden cart. That was good, Julia thought. Good that she wore gloves or she could splinter her hands on that wood.
She wondered what someone so obviously wealthy was doing there, holding fast to the cart, amid all those sweaty bodies. She was beautifully dressed; dressed like a countess. She shook her head to clear it a little and her eyes grew wide. A countess? It was Bethany; it was her own dear sister. She recalled their last meeting, the last words she had spoken to her were harsh, unfair, but she had meant them at the time.
Then she heard a man’s voice, saw him grip Bethany’s arm and pull her away.
“My Lady!” He called. “Come away! You do not want to join her, do you?”
Julia tried to smile, to reassure her, but she did not think she had managed it. Her face was too numb now, her whole body felt that it was fading away from existence and she would soon evaporate.
She was pulled roughly from the cart and dragged to the piled faggots. The guard likely thought she was resisting; he had no way of knowing she was half asleep and that when he tied her hands to the wooden stake, she was unconscious before he walked away.
CHAPTER NINE
Charles heard the whispering from his bed at the top of the stairs. He listened carefully; although they tried to keep their voices low, his friends’ words were clear. She was gone. His beloved Julia, the love of his life, his beautiful lady who never knew a moment’s thought for her own importance, who had given him everything and he had let her go.
He should have stopped her, should have done something. It was true she was the only one educated enough to get passed the guards, but it had not worked, had it? They had all died and now he was left with her little son, with the awful and thankless task of telling him his mother was not coming back.
From the moment she had ridden into his yard, back there in his father’s farm, he had been afraid of losing her, but he never expected to lose her like this. How she must have suffered! Simon would not know about her suffering, not until he was a grown man and old enough to hear it.
Tears filled his eyes; he did not even have a portrait of her. He had nothing but his memories of these short, blissful years which would never come again.
On the small cupboard in the corner of the room was her hairbrush. He picked it up and ran a finger over the long, pale blonde strands caught up in the bristles, all he had left of her. He took the brush and locked it away in the chest with her clothes.
His shoulder was still stiff and painful, and he likely needed to give it more time to heal, but anger was rapidly mixing with his grief and he w
anted to hurt something or someone. In his mind, there was but one person who was responsible for this, one person who would be made to pay no matter what the cost or risk to himself.
He struggled down the narrow staircase and went outside where Emily leapt forward to help him.
“You should not be out of bed,” she scolded.
“Should I stay here and let the Arch Papist get away my wife’s murder?”
“You heard.”
“Look after Simon, please,” he said as he made his way to the stables.
“Where are you going?” Emily called after him. “You cannot tackle the Earl all alone; he is a warrior, a skilled soldier. You will be killed; is that what she would have wanted?”
He ignored her, did not even glance back as he continued towards the stables. He led out Guinevere. She was a little small for him, but the only one in the stables schooled to be ridden.
“You are not going alone,” a man’s voice called after him.
Then there was a small crowd, two of the men hitching the cart to the Shire horse while he tacked up Julia’s little mare.
“I will care for you, girl,” he whispered to the animal. “You have no need to worry.”
She had loved this mare; he would teach Simon how to ride her. That would be a good tribute to her and it would give him something to do to take the child’s mind off his loss. Simon was very young still and would soon forget her, but Charles could help him do that by caring for her mare.
The party arrived at Summerville Hall after an easy enough journey. They were but a few miles away and Charles only wondered now how Sir Geoffrey had failed to find them again. Perhaps he had given up looking, although it seemed unlikely. He was determined to not only find Julia, but to punish her harshly as well. Charles would not have let that happen; there was no way he was going to carry out his threat. Charles would kill him first.
Julia had told him about the private church built in the woods, in among the trees and he rode straight there. He glanced at the small cottage beside it, just to be sure no one was there. The heavy oak doors to the church were standing open; Summerville had no reason to lock them, had he?
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