His Rebel Bride

by Helen Dickson

  ‘Your injury—does it pain you?’

  ‘Not much. ’Tis superficial and will soon heal, thanks to Alice’s ministerings.’ He smiled broadly. ‘She always was good at making things better.’

  Marcus’s heart was struck by a dart of jealousy, the more painful for being unexpected. Was he always to be reminded of what Harry Stapleton had been to Catherine? ‘I apologise for the accommodation not being up to much,’ he said, shrugging himself away from the door and moving closer to Harry.

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers. As things are, I am grateful for whatever I can get. I implore you, sir, as soon as you feel it is safe for me to do so, let me be on my way.’

  ‘And have my wife reproach me for it for the rest of our lives? No, I think not. But be assured that the sooner you are recovered and it is indeed safe for you to leave and find your way to the Continent, where, God willing, you will find yourself a wife and stop hankering after mine, the better I shall feel.’

  To be taunted over losing Catherine to Lord Reresby brought all the bitterness and loss Harry had suffered because of this man to erupt like a vicious strength. His anger showed in his heightened colour and the stiff set of his shoulders.

  ‘I dare say that you are stronger than me, with the added advantage of more years and experience of close fighting as a professional soldier. Nevertheless I would challenge you, sir, for that remark, but that it would be folly for me to do so now, weak and wounded as I am.’ Harry was tempted to add that his body was soaked with sweat in the hot and airless confined space he was forced to hide in, and itching from the dust and bits of chaff from the straw trapped inside his shirt and rubbing on his skin, but he would not give Reresby the satisfaction to gloat on his discomfort.

  ‘I am no stranger to a fight,’ he went on, his voice having become dangerously hard, which surprised Marcus. The cub had teeth, when pricked by the spur. ‘God knows I have good reason to despise you, but after escaping the hell of Sedgemoor, I am not about to jeopardise my life by attacking you.’

  ‘That is wise. I have no quarrel with you, and I thank you for returning my wife’s horse.’

  Harry took a step forward, and not for the first time, Marcus felt a thread of respect for him.

  ‘I am entirely at your mercy, Lord Reresby. Will you hand me over to Captain Kirke?’

  ‘No—not out of any regard towards you, you understand, but because I have promised my wife that I will not do so.’

  ‘You will help me? The decision is yours, sir, not Catherine’s.’

  Marcus studied him in thoughtful silence. After a long considering look, he nodded. ‘Still, it will be for my wife’s sake, and also because obligation compels me to help you. I did wrong by you when I married Catherine, for which I ask your pardon.’

  ‘Catherine is your wife. I don’t know if I will ever forgive you for taking her from me, but I have accepted that I have lost her. The time when everything might have been possible between us has gone. When we met in Taunton I knew it was finished, and so did she,’ he said, the words hurting his throat with the pain of speaking them. He had loved Catherine for so long, and now—now she was gone from him, and the weight of her loss lay heavy on his heart. Suddenly he smiled with a cynicism way beyond his years. ‘But fear not, I will survive it.’

  Marcus knew he would. With the steel-tempered strength of generations of well-bred gentlemen behind him, and a cause he would continue to fight for despite Monmouth’s capture, Harry Stapleton would not fail.

  ‘I can offer reward for any assistance you may give—when I reach Holland.’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ Marcus said in a cold voice. ‘I want no reward for such service.’

  ‘I meant no offence to you, sir.’

  ‘None taken,’ Marcus answered shortly.

  ‘Have you any news concerning the Duke of Monmouth and his whereabouts?’

  ‘Monmouth has been captured and taken to London. Are you not aware of that?’

  Harry’s expression didn’t change for a moment, then the words fell into place. ‘No, I am not. That it should have come to this,’ he said softly, deeply affected by this news. ‘May God show him mercy, for his uncle the King will not. What a mockery it all seems now. We came to England with our hopes high, convinced that God was on our side—and what has happened? The Londoners stayed at home and Argyll was defeated in Scotland.’ He sighed, shaking his head wearily. ‘I fought for Monmouth and my own ideals at Sedgemoor. No matter what happens now, I do not regret having done so, and while there is breath in my body I shall continue to fight until a Protestant King sits on England’s throne.’

  Marcus was suddenly struck by Harry’s youth, his vulnerability and his courage. His strength of purpose was evident in the set of his unshaven face, and he could see it in his eyes how proud he was to have stood firm by his convictions, to have fought for what he believed was right. Nothing could divert him from his cause. Marcus was almost overwhelmed by an unexpected feeling of admiration, which replaced some of the resentment he had long harboured for the young man, and with the admiration came guilt and something else he could not ignore, for the loyalty, determination and courage of Harry Stapleton—indeed, of the whole rank and file of Monmouth’s army—made him feel ashamed.

  This young man had fought for what he, Marcus, believed in—to set a Protestant King on the English throne. But he had preferred to step back and wait until his own analysis had worked itself out, believing that the time was not right for rebellion, that illegitimate Monmouth wasn’t the right man to be King, and because he would rather the Princess and Prince of Orange succeed. He didn’t feel very proud of himself as he turned and moved towards the door.

  ‘I’ll leave you to rest. It isn’t safe for you to remain here. After dark I will have you moved to a safer and more comfortable place.’

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate all you are doing for me.’

  A slight hesitation in Marcus’s step showed the words had been heard. He turned and glanced back. ‘Call it the tribute of a repentant conscience.’

  Any hope that lingered in the hearts of those in the West Country faithful to Monmouth died when news reached them of his execution. On the fifteenth of July, just nine days after the Battle of Sedgemoor, he was beheaded on Tower Hill. Seldom can an execution have been as badly botched. After five blows with the axe, with Monmouth still alive, Jack Ketch, the executioner, had to take a knife to complete his work.

  Harry’s new hiding place was in a shallow cave under a rocky overhang in the sunken water garden at Saxton Court. It was walled in along the front by several boulders, trailing ivy and brambles and beech trunks, stout enough to deter even the most resolute searching soldier. It was dry, cool and shadowy, smelling sweetly of undergrowth and the scent of flowers wafting in from the garden.

  Marcus informed Harry that it had been used successfully several times as a hiding place for escaping Royalists during the Civil War.

  Over the following days, Catherine rarely came into contact with Marcus, and when they did meet he was coolly aloof. Mealtimes, when he condescended to join her, were tense, joyless affairs. She continued to endure his coldness, while her mind whirled with questions about what was happening to Harry that only he could answer. How long would this interminable situation go on, assuming there would be an end to it eventually? It was a tense and difficult time, and it was imperative that no one at Saxton Court, apart from themselves, Alice and Archie, knew of Harry’s presence.

  Occasionally Marcus told Catherine of Harry’s progress and that he was recovering well. Aware of the dangers his presence at Saxton Court posed to them all, he was impatient to leave and try his chances on the road. There was an organised nonconformist underground movement for the purpose of aiding fugitives to escape to friendly Exmoor, where guides could be found to take them across the moor by hidden ways to seek passage in small boats from Ilfracombe or Lynmouth, or the ports of South Devon, Dorset and Hampshire, which offered a quicker passage to Holla
nd.

  Harry asked Marcus to try and get in touch with the organisation to help him reach the coast, but having fought on the opposite side at Sedgemoor, Marcus knew his chances of doing this were negligible.

  Soldiers, armed and alert, patrolled the roads in the search for rebels. Many were lying low, hiding until the intense period of search and watchfulness had passed. The West Country was a paradise for the fugitives, where woods of beech and oak, bracken, gorse and heather provided marvellous great sunken ditches covered by undergrowth.

  Afraid of what Fenton might do next and not knowing if Marcus had seen him since the night he had come demanding money, Catherine was living on a knife-edge. The fear lingered uncomfortably. Thankfully the days, stretching into weeks, passed without incident, until the beginning of August, when a long line of soldiers rode up to the house.

  Catherine joined Marcus on the steps in front and watched them ride closer. A grim-faced George Stanhope rode behind the leader.

  ‘What the devil does Kirke want?’ Marcus muttered.

  The name of the officer left in command to deal with the rebels caused Catherine’s stomach to contract with foreboding. The horrifying menace that had hung over Saxton Court since Harry had appeared seemed to have come home to roost. She read disaster in the set of his face, and she was sure that his eyes held a threat. Glancing at Marcus, she saw that his features were perfectly bland, but he was physically tense, as though he knew that an unusually unpleasant confrontation was about to occur. She heard him utter something under his breath that she recognised as a vicious obscenity, but then he was moving down the steps to greet his visitors with no hesitation in his manner.

  ‘Ah, Reresby,’ Captain Kirke said pleasantly. Much in the manner of a flamboyant officer, he swung off his still-prancing horse and came to stand in front of them, arrogance in his stance. ‘It is a pleasure to be renewing our acquaintance.’ He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I heard you’d done with the army and hoped to find you at home.’

  ‘Captain Kirke,’ Marcus said in tones of mild surprise, as one might greet a casual acquaintance. His gaze flicked to George, whose usually good-humoured face remained expressionless. He fixed his attention once more on the captain. Kirke had always been difficult to deal with, but he had been adroitly managed by Marcus when they had been together in Tangiers. ‘I hadn’t thought to see you here. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I regret to say this is not a social call. I’m here in a professional capacity. I have your bailiff locked up in Taunton gaol.’

  Captain Kirke’s proclamation hit Marcus like a thunderbolt, but his expression remained impassive. ‘If you are referring to Mr Fenton, Captain, he is no longer my bailiff. I dismissed him from his post several weeks ago.’

  ‘Yes, that is what I have been told. However, he has made serious allegations that I cannot ignore.’

  ‘Allegations?’

  ‘Aye, that you are harbouring one of the rebels here at Saxton Court—and maybe more than one.’

  ‘I am as amazed as much as I am intrigued,’ Marcus replied coolly. ‘Are you quite certain your information is correct? All this talk about concealing rebels…’ He shook his head in smiling disbelief. ‘I would not cast doubts on your information—only on your informant. It is nothing but the fictitious, vindictive ramblings of a man set on revenge.’

  Kirke raised a quizzical brow. ‘Really? And why should Mr Fenton wish to be revenged, sir?’

  ‘I refused to give him money to aid his escape—and this is his way of hitting back. I confess I find it all very surprising. Come now, Captain—with my long service towards King and country? Are you forgetting that I fought against Monmouth at Sedgemoor—and have we not fought side by side in past battles?’

  ‘We have, indeed, but then it’s amazing the lengths one will go to to placate one’s wife.’ His eyes, cool and derisive, shifted from Marcus and settled on Catherine’s taut features. If he had hoped to see a flicker of emotion pass across her face, he was disappointed. He smiled and bowed his head slightly. ‘You are Lady Reresby?’

  Catherine had listened with mounting alarm to the stiff exchanges between Marcus and Captain Kirke, but now at the mention of her own name her fears took on a new edge. However, it was with dignity and a fair assumption of icy civility that she replied.

  ‘I am Lady Catherine Reresby, and I have never had the need to placate my husband, sir. He is no callow youth I can lead about on a string and expect him to obey my whim.’ With a soft, wistful smile, she moved closer to her husband’s side. ‘If you know him well, Captain Kirke, you will agree with me.’

  Captain Kirke could find no answer to her words. At least, not one he wished to entertain. ‘You husband is his own man, I grant you.’ His eyes were as cold as the waters in a West Country dyke in midwinter as they remain fixed on Catherine. ‘The man I seek is Harry Stapleton, who sailed from Holland with Monmouth and has been by his side throughout. My informant stated that Stapleton would be found at Saxton Court—and that because you were once his mistress, you would do everything in your power to shield him and aid his escape.’

  Rage, hot and furious, flared in Catherine, but before she could say a word in her defence, Marcus had stepped forward. His eyes glittered at the offensiveness of the captain’s remark. The muscles of his jaw were taut with a rage barely under control, his voice hard and his eyes ice cold.

  ‘Let that be enough, Captain. Do what you came to do, since the word of my disgraced bailiff is enough to make you invade a respectable household, but do not insult my wife.’

  Unperturbed, Captain Kirke shrugged, having grown accustomed to the disdain the West Country folk bore him and his soldiers. ‘I was not insulting your wife. I was merely repeating what I have been told.’

  ‘If you believe everything you are told, I am sorry for you, Captain,’ Marcus said with biting contempt. ‘For myself it makes no difference, but let me advise you to behave more courteously towards my wife, unless you wish me to register a complaint against you.’

  ‘There will be no need for that.’ Captain Kirke looked at Catherine. ‘If I have made a mistake I apologise, Lady Reresby.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Stapleton was your betrothed, I am told. You were close.’

  Shock drained the blood from Catherine’s cheeks as she realised the implication of the captain’s words and sensed an underlying threat. ‘No, sir, he was not,’ she told him bravely. ‘We knew each other, but we were not betrothed.’ She stepped closer to her husband. His shirt was open at the neck, and she could see the corded muscles of his throat and the pulse that was beating furiously there.

  ‘Stapleton is not here,’ Marcus said shortly, fighting to keep his voice neutral. Whatever past conflicts lay between himself and Captain Kirke, the last thing he wanted now was trouble.

  ‘We’ll take a look,’ said one of the soldiers behind Kirke, enthusiastically jumping from his mount, but his leader stopped him with a gesture.

  ‘Now who would be doubting the word of a gentleman like Lord Reresby?’ he said. ‘But I don’t suppose there’s any harm in looking around now, is there?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ Marcus offered through gritted teeth, ‘but I wonder at the sheer extravagance that could employ such a large contingent of soldiers to check on one house for one rebel.’

  ‘It is necessary with a house and grounds of this size.’

  ‘You will be wasting your time. You will not find Stapleton here—or any other rebel, come to that.’

  ‘Nevertheless, my job is to round them up. Harbouring a rebel is itself high treason, and it is important that people here in the West Country realise just how dreadful the consequences of such behaviour is likely to be. I have a duty to investigate, you understand.’ Turning to his men, his voice rang out in tones of authority for them to get on with the search and to leave no stone unturned.

  Catherine released a sigh of relief when he went with them, noticing that he made straight for t
he stables. Clearly Mr Fenton had told him where to look. Overcome by a fit of trembling, she closed her eyes. Though she was thinking and functioning, she was still in shock.

  ‘I don’t like Captain Kirke,’ she uttered in a low voice.

  ‘You are not alone in that,’ George murmured, having dismounted and come to stand beside them.

  Marcus looked down at his wife. He hadn’t missed the flare of temper in her eyes, or the fright when Kirke had addressed her. Even though she had borne his insult with a touching dignity that had earned his admiration, her fear had been almost palpable. Sensing her distress was almost more than he could bear, arousing in him a sudden need to protect. Taking her hand, he drew her to his side and looked at George Stanhope.

  ‘I am surprised to see you here with Kirke, George,’ he remarked.

  ‘Under ordinary circumstances I would not be—I abhor the man. He is a conceited braggart who has little regard for honour or human life.’

  Marcus’s mouth twisted, and presently he said under his breath, ‘You forget that I know him, George—I know Kirke better than most.’

  ‘Then you will know that I am right. When I heard he was coming here, I took the opportunity to accompany him so I could warn you.’

  ‘There are enough soldiers to search the whole of Somerset,’ Catherine whispered. ‘I am baffled as to why. Something else is afoot. I can feel it.’

  Marcus frowned. ‘You look concerned, George. What is it you have to warn us against?’

  ‘I neither know nor care whether Stapleton is here or not, that is your affair. My anxiety is for your wife—and it has increased considerably since Mr Fenton was apprehended. He was always suspected of being involved in The Rye House Plot and successfully evaded the clutches of the Government in the summer of ’83. All four of the leading Republicans in that plot have been active in the planning of this rebellion in Holland and have escaped from Sedgemoor. Kirke has been trying to persuade Fenton to turn King’s evidence, promising him a pardon if he informs on his fellow rebels.’