His Rebel Bride

by Helen Dickson

  ‘And has he?’ Catherine asked quietly.

  ‘No.’ He looked at the young woman’s ashen face. ‘But he has divulged information that may be dangerous for you, Catherine—about your father. I have not been made privy to that information, but I know it is of a serious nature.’

  ‘How serious?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘Serious enough for me to advise you to leave Saxton Court as quickly as possible. While Kirke is in Somerset, go to London, anywhere, just as long as you leave. It matters not one iota that Catherine is your wife, Marcus. I fear Kirke may take her to Taunton for questioning.’

  Catherine felt cold and sick and a terrible panic, and for the first time a sense of fear for herself. A feeling of genuine terror jarred through her. She looked blindly at her husband, groping for his arm and gripping it as though to steady herself. ‘No—it’s not possible!’ she uttered in a breathless whisper. ‘He wouldn’t.’

  The words were barely audible, but the horror in them was unmistakable and it shocked Marcus into putting his arm about her trembling shoulders and drawing her close.

  ‘Don’t underestimate him, Catherine,’ George remarked sharply. ‘Kirke is not a man to be trifled with.’

  ‘But what can Mr Fenton have told him? I have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘The mere fact that you are Henry Barrington’s daughter—a staunch Republican who was constantly scheming to topple the King, a man whose very name is anathema to any royalist as fervent as Captain Kirke—and also your close association with Harry Stapleton are enough. You are involved by association.’

  ‘Was the information extracted from Fenton under torture?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘No. It was freely given.’

  ‘Which proves my point. It is all part of Fenton’s revenge. But what would Kirke hope to achieve by arresting Catherine?’

  ‘It will give him considerable satisfaction. Not only is your wife Barrington’s daughter, she is also one of the few persons of quality he suspects of assisting one of Monmouth’s rebels, and therefore ripe to be made an example of. Nothing will bring the gravity of the crime against the King home more quickly than the arrest of a lady of quality.’

  Marcus’s eyes were bitter. ‘And with Fenton’s vindictiveness, and Kirke’s zeal, my wife’s fate is sealed.’

  ‘I believe the normal punishment for a woman convicted of high treason and found guilty is to be burned at the stake,’ Catherine whispered, unable to keep her voice from trembling.

  Marcus’s arm tightened around her. ‘Fear not, Catherine. It will not come to that.’ Seeing some of the soldiers returning from the stables, he gripped George’s arm in a gesture of gratitude. ‘I appreciate the risk you have taken by making me aware of this, George,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I shall take heed.’

  ‘Do so—and quickly.’ His face hard, George strode off to join Captain Kirke.

  Catherine stepped away from Marcus, seeing his stony profile and eyes that stared straight ahead. ‘I’m afraid,’ she said quietly. ‘This place is a terrible one to be at this time. It’s impossible to go anywhere—with soldiers crawling all over the countryside like ants in their search for rebels. Taunton—if the servants’ gossip is true, and I believe it is now that I have met the infamous Captain Kirke—resembles a charnel house, and smallpox is rife among the prisoners. I fear what he will do, and I fear for Harry. What is to become of him? How can he possibly escape? I can think of little else but his mortal danger.’

  The catch in her voice was so touching and tragic that Marcus was moved in spite of himself. He felt the weight of her misery, and if any tiniest bit of anger remained because of her continuing devotion to Harry, it immediately vanished at the sight of her tear-bright eyes. Unable to keep her at arm’s length a moment longer, once again he gathered her to him like an infant, stroking her hair, thinking how well her body fitted into his arms.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he soothed. ‘We’ll think of something. George is right. We will have to think about leaving Saxton Court.’

  The soldiers searched the house and grounds thoroughly but were unable to locate any concealed fugitives. Not until Captain Kirke was mounting his horse did Marcus enquire, ‘What will happen to Fenton?’

  ‘There are serious charges against him. He was one of the men responsible for planning the rebellion and raising men to fight for Monmouth. He will not be left in prison to await his fate for long. There is no need for a trial. He will hang.’

  As Kirke was about to ride away he turned to Marcus once again, delivering his parting salvo with a smirk and a fervent gleam in his eyes. ‘Oh, and one more thing, Lord Reresby. You may not yet know it, but a cavalcade of lawyers, judges and their attendants, led by the Lord Chief Justice, Lord Jeffreys, is on its way to the West Country to dispense the King’s justice. Lord Jeffreys has been given a special commission to try the rebels at the next assizes. I have rounded up sufficient to keep him and his helpers busy for months. The trials will begin in Dorchester.’

  Even when Captain Kirke and his soldiers had ridden away, Marcus’s expression did not ease. His face was drawn tight at what Kirke had disclosed.

  ‘What do you know of Lord Jeffreys, Marcus? Is he a fair man.’

  ‘Intensely loyal to his Majesty, Lord Jeffreys vents his rage on all who seek to disturb the security of the monarchy. He has no love for Dissenters or rebels. The news of his appointment will do little to cheer the prisoners in the gaols awaiting their fate. With over a thousand awaiting trial, his task will be formidable.’

  ‘Thank God they didn’t find Harry,’ Catherine whispered, her face white and set. ‘If they had, I’m certain Captain Kirke would have had him flogged and hanged before the day is out.’

  At the fear clouding her eyes, Marcus reached out and took her hands, finding them cold and trembling. ‘Everything will be all right. He is safe for the moment, and so are you, but for how long? It is wise to be careful.’

  Dropping her hands, he stared rigidly at the backs of the departing soldiers. Catherine watched as he lifted one hand and massaged the taut muscles in his neck, his expression becoming darker and more ominous as his mind went over what had just occurred. He was deeply troubled, Catherine could see that, and naturally so, all things considered. Weren’t things difficult enough between them, without the added responsibility of hiding a rebel on his property and the possibility of having his wife arrested? In a desperate attempt to make things right between them, she moved closer to his side.

  ‘I’m sorry about all this, Marcus. If I could spirit Harry away, believe me, I would.’

  He turned his head and looked down at her, barely unconcealed doubt clouding his dark eyes. ‘Would you, Catherine? Would you really?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I would. There was a time, not so long ago, when I could never have imagined being close to any other man but Harry. But times and emotions change—and they have changed me. When will you realise that I no longer love him? Haven’t you felt, during that last night we spent together, that I belong to you?’

  Marcus’s shoulders stiffened and his jaw hardened as he coldly rejected the memory. ‘I would be grateful not to be reminded of that occasion just now, Catherine.’

  ‘Why not? Are you ashamed of the way you behaved? Be honest with me, Marcus. I’m not ashamed. I was glad it happened, and it was in the hope of every night to be like that one that I was glad when your time with the army was at an end.’ She slipped an arm around his neck and pressed against him, distracted by her emotions, and longing to communicate this torment that possessed her to him.

  Marcus tried hard to shove her away with hands that secretly asked nothing better than to hold her. She had taken the first step toward a reconciliation, and she expected him to take the next one, which, while ever Harry Stapleton remained at Saxton Court, he found difficult. He was ashamed of his own discomfort, for he could not shake off his remorse at having destroyed what had existed between Harry and Catherine. He also suspected that deep down Catherine still harb
oured tender thoughts for him, that she still wanted him, and he could not bear to imagine forcing himself on her while she was thinking of someone else.

  ‘Please listen to me,’ she pleaded fervently, gripping his arm. ‘I find it hard to see myself as I used to be—living my life believing Harry would be a part of it for ever. That was another lifetime. Then I was somebody else. Having discovered this life with you here at Saxton Court, I cannot conceive of anything different. But now, suddenly, with this awful rebellion, my life is different, cruelly so. I want to help Harry, there is no question of that, but I also want you.’

  Gazing down at her upturned face, Marcus caught her shoulders in a hard grip. ‘I am touched by what you say, Catherine, and more than anything I want to believe you. In the beginning I did wonder how you could ever respect me as a wife should—a man who had sworn vengeance on your father, and yet when I made love to you and felt your response, I hoped you had forgotten my legitimate feud in the passion I aroused in you.’

  ‘During the time I have been at Saxton Court, I have gained a deeper understanding of why you married me. My attitude to you has gradually become more sympathetic and my thoughts more favourable towards you, Marcus. Not only that, I can forgive the implacable hatred you felt for my father. Perhaps, in your place, I would have felt the same. But I really don’t understand you sometimes. In the short time I have known you, you have gone from enemy to friend, to loving husband, and then to someone indifferent.’

  His dark eyes slid over her face, trapping her in their burning gaze. ‘What man could be indifferent to you? One must either love you to distraction or want to strangle you.’

  ‘And what would you like to do to me, Marcus? Tell me.’

  The sudden noise of a carriage coming up the drive interrupted them. Catherine would never know what he would have said. As abruptly as he had caught her to him, he pushed her away.

  Chapter Ten

  I n no mood for company, Marcus was about to turn away as the heavy coach lumbered up the drive. However, when it came to a halt, he was pleasantly surprised when Roger emerged. ‘Roger! I thought you were still in London. Is Elizabeth with you?’

  ‘No. She’s content to remain in London while all this upheaval is going on.’

  ‘You’re right, it’s the best place for her at this time. She is well, I hope?’

  ‘Aye, she is, and the children. I’m relieved that you survived Sedgemoor, Marcus. We heard about it in London—dreadful business.’

  Marcus nodded. ‘Sadly Dickon didn’t make it.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry to hear it,’ Roger said with sympathy. ‘Fine young man. Gave you loyal service.’

  Putting on a bright smile, Catherine faced Roger, prepared to play the congenial hostess with guileless warmth despite her inner torment. ‘It’s good to see you, Roger. You will share a meal with us?’

  Affecting a fine, courtly bow, Roger took her hand and bent over it. ‘Thank you, my dear, I accept gladly.’ He studied her face. ‘It’s good to see you, too, Catherine—although I have to say you are looking somewhat peaky. Why don’t you join Elizabeth in London? The city’s a suitable haven from these worrying times—put some colour back into your cheeks.’

  ‘I’m fine, Roger, truly.’ Catherine had already decided not to mention George’s warning. She’d leave that to Marcus, when he had decided what they must do for the best.

  ‘Well, if you say so. I came down here to check on the house—make sure it hasn’t been broken into in our absence—and to see you, Marcus.’ His pleasant countenance became set in sober lines. ‘I have news, and I wanted to tell you myself.’

  Marcus nodded, his expression serious, knowing why he had come. ‘Come inside.’

  ‘I passed a troop of horse on the road. I saw George was with them. Trouble?’

  ‘You might say that. They’re searching for rebels—one in particular.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘Harry,’ Catherine said softly, closing the door of the salon. ‘Harry Stapleton.’

  The name stopped Roger in his tracks. He stared at Catherine in astonishment. ‘Young Stapleton? Is he here?’ He held up his hand to stop her words. ‘No, do not tell me anything you would rather not,’ he said quickly.

  ‘It makes no matter. I know I can trust you. Stapleton is here,’ Marcus divulged quietly. ‘The soldiers’ search revealed nothing, so he remains safe and secure for now. The same cannot be said of Fenton. He is in Taunton gaol.’

  ‘Is he, indeed?’ Roger muttered, sitting in the chair indicated by Marcus, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. ‘Well, I am hardly surprised. He’s been discussing rebellion ever since James became King—and before that.’

  ‘Tell me.’ Marcus handed Roger a much-needed brandy.

  After taking a healthy draught, Roger glanced to where Catherine perched uneasily on the edge of her chair facing them both.

  ‘It’s all right, Roger. Feel free to speak in front of Catherine.’ Meeting his wife’s questioning look, Marcus explained, ‘I asked Roger to make certain enquiries regarding Fenton while he was in London, to see if he could find out what he was doing around the time my father was murdered. I’m hoping you have been successful, Roger.’

  Roger’s expression became grave. ‘I have discovered enough to see Mr Fenton hanged.’

  ‘Nothing would please me more,’ Marcus agreed. ‘Please continue, George.’

  ‘As a committed Republican, twenty-five years of monarchy has not changed Mr Fenton’s nature. The man’s been plotting against successive governments since the Commonwealth. In my opinion, Mr Fenton is a fanatic dedicated to the destruction of the monarchy. He is a quietly active and extremely rebellious subject—but despite this, he is clever, and no one has ever been able to lay anything on him. In fact, Marcus, your Mr Fenton seems to have led a charmed life.’

  ‘Until now, it would seem,’ Marcus commented drily.

  ‘I’m only surprised he didn’t leave Somerset when he had the chance. He always distrusted Monmouth, suspecting him of double-dealing after The Rye House Plot, and also suspecting him of seeking his uncle’s crown—an ambition which, of course, is anathema to the committed Republican. He did not think the time was right for a rebellion, but when it went ahead, he was willing enough to be in the thick of the scheming.’

  ‘You said you have news, Roger. How close was Henry Barrington to Fenton?’

  ‘They were both members of a movement to overthrow the King—though I believe their association was often volatile. When your father appointed Mr Fenton as his bailiff, he became concerned that he spent some considerable time in the company of John Trenchard—as you know, he was the man charged by The Rye House Plotters to raise the men of the West Country to join Monmouth.’

  Marcus nodded slowly. ‘I am aware of that. He left the country before the rebellion.’

  ‘Thwarted in their attempts to discover either arms or rebels, the local loyalists redoubled their persecution of the Dissenters. As a Justice of the Peace, and ably assisted by paid informers, your father raided conventicles, fining or imprisoning those they found attending them. Mr Fenton was at one such meeting. You can imagine your father’s shock and his feeling of betrayal by a man he himself had placed in a position of trust on his estate. What happened afterwards is not known exactly, only that your father immediately left for London and Mr Fenton went home to his family—or so it was thought at the time.’

  ‘That was what he told everyone and no one, including myself, had any reason to doubt him.’

  ‘Why should you? Being away from home for such long periods, you didn’t know the man from Adam. However, I have it on good authority from a man by the name of Albert Watkins, also a Republican and an acquaintance of Mr Fenton—although he had nothing but ill to say of him—that Mr Fenton did not visit his home and went instead to Riverside House to meet with Henry Barrington.’ He paused and glanced at Catherine. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but this will be painful for you, I know.’

&nb
sp; ‘My father was a man of considerable intelligence and strong character, and a man of that stamp is wholly committed to his beliefs, even if those beliefs go against the general rule of things. No matter what his feelings were for me, I always admired him for that. I am aware that he was involved in The Rye House Plot to murder King Charles and his brother—and probably others before that, so nothing you say will surprise me. I want a Protestant King as much as anyone else, but I cannot condone the murdering of a Catholic King. There has to be another less brutal way to depose a monarch. Whatever crime my father committed I want to know about it, so pray continue, Roger.’

  ‘Well, if you say so. Fenton and Barrington went to London together and arrived at your father’s house in Westminster late one night, Marcus.’

  ‘And Mr Watkins? Did he meet with Fenton at this time?’

  ‘At the King’s Head Tavern in Fleet Street, where Fenton dropped in before leaving for Somerset.’

  Marcus’s face darkened and his voice lost its warmth. ‘It was at the King’s Head where I fleeced Barrington of everything he owned. I recall how uneasy he was, and I also recall seeing a shadowy figure hovering briefly in the doorway. I am beginning to suspect that it was Fenton who bore witness to events that night, and that Barrington was aware of his presence, but dare not speak out for fear of meeting the same fate as my father. Do you know why Fenton went to Riverside House instead of going directly to London?’

  ‘Your father had written evidence—manuscripts and letters—sent to Fenton from a fellow conspirator in Holland, and found at Fenton’s meeting place when it was searched. Upon examination they were found to contain several treasonable passages concerning The Rye House Plot that would prove valid in a court of law. The Government may have suspected Fenton as being involved in that particular plot, but your father clearly did not, otherwise he would never have employed him in the first place.’

  ‘From my own enquiries made after my father was killed, I knew of these papers’ existence and that they incriminated Barrington,’ Marcus told him. ‘The other name remained a mystery to me until now. You have done well, Roger.’