‘Harry, what has happened to you?’ Catherine gasped.
Seeing Catherine bending over him, Harry smiled with difficulty and tried to allay her fears. ‘Catherine, what are you doing here? I—I think I’m all right…’
‘Of course you’re not.’ Collapsing to her knees, she cradled his tousled head close against her breast. ‘Did you fall down the stairs?’
‘It’s all rather confused—and there isn’t much to tell. I was pushed, that I do know. I heard someone in the house—and—I went upstairs to investigate. Then the devil attacked me.’
‘Who was it? Did you see?’ she asked.
He shook his head, swallowing hard. ‘Too dark.’
‘What are your injuries?’ Marcus asked. ‘Can you move your legs?’
‘I think so. I hit my head when I fell. Help me to sit up, will you?’
With Marcus’s assistance he managed to drag himself to a sitting position and lean weakly against the panelling, wincing when sharp pain shot through his head. On examination, Marcus could detect no serious injury.
‘Is the person who attacked you still in the house, do you think, Harry?’ Catherine queried.
‘No. I heard the door close when he left. I did manage to wound him—I don’t know how seriously or how far he’ll get, but I must leave myself, otherwise the Expedience will sail without me.’
‘But you can’t possibly go like this,’ Catherine objected.
‘Yes, he can,’ Marcus said firmly. ‘We’ll take him to the docks.’
Catherine gave him a sideways glance and said tartly, ‘But he’s hurt. We must take him back to Elizabeth’s where we can tend him.’
‘No, Catherine,’ Harry said. ‘Your husband is right. I shall be perfectly all right. I have to go. I cannot miss this chance. We must hurry. Please—help me to stand.’
Marcus took his arm and hoisted him to his feet. Harry had to brace himself until his world stopped reeling. Gingerly he tested his limbs by stretching them, and then his youthful features broke into a smile when he looked at Marcus, who was supporting him until he got his balance.
‘It would appear you’ve had a lodger in your absence, Lord Reresby, living rent free. I think you’ll have to change your locks in case he returns.’
Catherine stared at him, wondering how he could joke at a time like this.
‘I think it’s a little late for that,’ Marcus quipped, relieved to know the younger man had not lost his sense of humour.
‘It was Fenton,’ Catherine whispered. ‘I’m sure of it. And if so, then he might have heard what you said to Harry about the ship. It is my belief that you will find him on the Expedience posing as John Oakley.’
‘It is a possibility I will not discount, Catherine.’ He looked at Harry. ‘Do you think you can make it to the coach?’
‘Aye, if I have to crawl on my hands and knees.’
Marcus took his arm and half-carried him across the hall. Fortunately, by the time they reached the door Harry was walking better and managed to climb into the coach unaided.
Dawn streaked the sky by the time they reached the docks. Ships of every kind, with tall masts and gilded hulls, lay on the black, calm waters of the River Thames in great numbers. The wharves were busy, with a constant procession of loaders and quaymen streaming like ants across the dock. Archie stopped the coach when they came to the Expedience. Having had its cargo loaded into the hold, the vessel was almost ready to sail.
Marcus had endured the journey with a minimum of words and emotions, for he no longer had any doubt that Catherine was right about Fenton, and that he would find him on board the Expedience. As he was about to climb out of the coach, he suddenly stiffened.
‘What is it?’ Catherine asked.
‘Soldiers—still on the look-out for fleeing rebels.’
Catherine looked and saw two soldiers shoving their way through the crowd. Two more made a slow circuit, glancing about. Another remained on watch, his eyes flicking over the ships that were preparing to leave. No one appeared perturbed by the soldiers’ presence—the same could not be said of the occupants in the coach.
Marcus was outwardly calm, but Catherine saw his hand clench slowly into a fist. Harry, less able to control his feelings, bent his head to hide his expression, unable to feel at ease in the presence of the King’s soldiers, and for good reason. Marcus glanced at him.
‘Don’t worry. You’ve passed notice so far. Once you’re on board you’ll be safe.’ While his tone was not inhospitable, it was clear that he would prefer to be rid of his dangerous cargo as soon as possible.
Leaving his wife and Harry inside the coach, he went on board to find the captain. He found him watching as the last of the water casks were being loaded into the forward hold. Marcus was already acquainted with Captain Erskine, having sailed on the Expedience himself when he had journeyed to The Hague in search of his errant wife in April.
‘Ah, Lord Reresby, good to see you again,’ Captain Erskine said, smiling broadly as he strode across the deck to greet him. ‘You’re just in time. We’re ready to sail. What can I do for you?’
‘I’ve brought your passenger, Captain—John Oakley.’
The captain frowned. ‘Then there has to be some mistake. Mr Oakley is already on board. He asked to go straight to his cabin—seemed to be suffering under the effects of some kind of malady. Came aboard an hour ago.’
‘That’s impossible. Mr Oakley is in my carriage on the wharf. Describe the man you have on board, Captain.’
‘Quite tall, brown hair going grey—long face—fiftyish, I’d say.’ Captain Erskine saw Marcus stiffen. ‘You know him?’
‘Indeed I do.’
‘Then I’ll have him brought up.’
‘No, say nothing. Do not announce me.’
Captain Erskine looked surprised at the sharpness of his tone. ‘May I ask why?’
‘I can assure you, Captain, that the man you have on board is not John Oakley but a fugitive from justice. His name is Fenton, and he is highly dangerous. I know enough about him to put a rope around his neck. He was one of the instigators of Monmouth’s rebellion and escaped the noose by seconds in Taunton. He was my bailiff, and I know the power of evil that inhabits the man, and the deadly, consuming hatred he feels for me. I—also have my own reason for wanting to bring the man to book.’
‘What’s that?’
‘He murdered my father.’
The captain nodded slowly, digesting what Marcus had told him. ‘I see. My commiserations, Lord Reresby, but if it is revenge you are seeking, you will not commit murder on my ship.’
‘I have no intention of murdering anyone. I want Fenton to stand trial and will not cheat the hangman of his neck a second time. Give me a few minutes, Captain, and then summon a couple of the soldiers.’
‘And what shall I tell them?’
‘That you have a stowaway.’
‘Very well, but I ask you to be quick. I want to weigh anchor in the next half-hour. You’ll find who you’re looking for in the cabin to the right of the companionway.’
Marcus’s hand went to the hilt of his sword as he strode cross the deck and climbed down the companionway. When he reached the bottom he paused and looked around the cramped space. Overhead he could hear men moving, but down here it was empty and still, the captain’s sector totally deserted. He listened at the cabin door. Nothing. There was nothing he could do but enter and hope for the best. He pushed open the door a crack.
Inside the coach Catherine waited with feverish impatience for Marcus to return. She nearly panicked when she saw two of the soldiers move close to the ship, unaware that Marcus had told Captain Erskine to summon them. Her fear for her husband prompted her to warn him, regardless of anyone who might try and stop her. To Harry’s astonishment she left the coach and went on board. She looked around frantically, searching. Unable to see Marcus, she dashed across the deck towards the companionway.
‘If it’s the captain you’re wanting,’ a voice said as
Marcus pushed open the door, ‘he’s up on deck.’
‘The captain?’ Marcus exclaimed. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? No, Fenton, it is not the captain I’m wanting. I’ve come to see you.’ He stepped inside. It was hot, the cabin small and cramped, the atmosphere closed. He could smell blood, fresh blood. He looked at the figure slumped in a chair at the side of a narrow bed, his clothes soiled and crumpled, and looking all of his fifty years and more. His days as a fugitive had taken their toll. At last Marcus was face to face with his enemy, his nemesis, the man who had murdered his father.
Fenton’s head jerked up at the sound of Marcus’s voice. The sight of the tall man standing, feet planted well apart, in the doorway, brought him to his own feet, a gun in his hand. He swayed and had to hold on to the back of the chair to steady himself. His face was waxen and a blue vein twitched at his temple. It was obvious to Marcus that the man was suffering great discomfort. Harry had said he had injured him—if so, how badly?
‘I see you are expecting me, Fenton.’
‘Stay where you are,’ Fenton hissed. His eyes held a bright, cold gleam. ‘I’m sure Lord Reresby’s wife does not wish her husband to become a dead hero.’
‘Put away the gun, Fenton, and we will see how much of a dead hero I am.’
‘Why are you here? Have you brought a pardon from the King?’ he asked, his voice heavily laced with sarcasm, for this was the last thing he could expect.
‘You should be so lucky, Fenton,’ Marcus sneered. ‘I’ll have you back on the scaffold as fast as your head can spin.’ He gripped the hilt of his sword, knuckles white. Self-restraint was nearly impossible, but the position of Fenton’s gun and his trembling hand made fruitless any display of bravado.
‘Did you think to escape me? I have a score to settle with you—a heavy score, and one I mean to make you pay in full. You’re injured, I see,’ he said, seeing Fenton’s blood-soaked shirt when his jerkin gaped open.
‘It looks worse than it is.’
Marcus wasn’t convinced. The man was struggling to remain upright. ‘In my mind you are guilty beyond doubt of numerous crimes. It was you who assisted Trenchard in raising men to join the rebellion. When my father found incriminating letters and manuscripts proving beyond doubt your part in The Rye House Plot, it was you who murdered him to stop him exposing you. Such ingratitude, after all he did for you.’
‘Do not concern yourself with my ability to capture your father’s trust. I did it and succeeded with nothing more than my own wits and because he was a sublime fool.’
‘His trust in you made him the tool of a villain and brought about his death. Do you admit that it was you who killed him?’
‘Aye, since you ask, I killed him. When he found the letters he disposed of my services and threatened to expose me—me and Barrington—and he had to be stopped. We followed him to London. Barrington didn’t have the nerve to silence him, so I did it—and burned the papers.’ Fenton actually flinched at the cold, ruthless fury in the younger man’s eyes as they locked on his.
‘I suspected as much. Now you have confirmed what I have suspected for some time, I want your life, and no less. You murdered my father, you insulted my wife. You terrified the people who work for me and dared to invade the peace of my house. You are vile, Fenton, and you cannot treat anything of mine in such a manner without answering to me.’
He had spoken quietly, too quietly for Fenton’s nerves. ‘So, you mean to kill me.’
‘No, but the King’s men will. You will hang, Fenton, and when I come to see it I will not pity you. I shall rest a lot easier once you’re dead.’ Aware that someone had come to stand behind him, he turned slightly to see his wife, her large eyes filled with concern. ‘Catherine, what the hell are you trying to do—get yourself killed? I told you to remain in the coach.’
In the face of his angry displeasure, Catherine swallowed audibly, and her voice wavered. ‘You were a long time. I was worried about you—and there are soldiers close to the ship.’
‘Don’t worry. Erskine will have summoned them.’ Marcus glanced at her sharply. ‘Stapleton is still inside the coach?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, you have found him,’ Fenton gasped, his eyes gloating horribly. ‘He took quite a tumble—thought I’d killed him.’
‘He is very much alive—with no thanks to you, Mr Fenton,’ Catherine remarked coldly. ‘He has survived his encounter with you without scars.’
‘A resilient young man, that. So, he is here and about to take my place. No doubt you have summoned the soldiers to arrest me, but I shall see to it that I am not taken alone.’ Fenton’s voice was weak now, for pain had shortened his breath.
On his face was a look of such malice and determination to do Harry harm, that Catherine felt dread and apprehension, combined with misery and hopelessness, deep and palpable. Stepping past her husband, she faced Fenton, staring at the black muzzle of his gun aimed directly at her stomach. For a moment she saw madness in his eyes and feared he would shoot her. She did not want to die, not needlessly like this. Life had grown very dear to her. Suddenly she had everything to live for, beginning with Marcus and their unborn child. But she had to plead for Harry.
‘Will you not do one honourable thing to redeem yourself before you die, Mr Fenton?’ she said quietly. ‘Harry has done you no wrong. He means nothing to you. Please don’t use him as an instrument to avenge my husband. He may not be a Republican, but Harry fights for the cause so dear to your own heart. If he reaches Holland he will strive to place Prince William and Princess Mary on England’s throne. He is young and will devote himself to that end. Knowing this, can you not show mercy and help him on his way?’
‘Why should I grant him any favours?’
‘Surely it must gladden your heart knowing he is just one of many who will continue the struggle to depose King James. I beg of you, Mr Fenton, give Harry’s predicament decent consideration. I would be grateful to you.’ Her voice was devoid of expression, but her eyes were pleading. ‘Please, do not expose him.’
With the sharp reflex of a soldier, and the sharp instinct of a man who will protect that which he holds most dear, even with his life, seeing the gun waver menacingly in Fenton’s hand, Marcus moved to place himself between his wife and the man who glared at her.
‘I warn you, Fenton, if you attempt to harm my wife in any way, I will run you through—soldiers or not.’
Fenton swayed, and before he had recovered, Marcus was on him. Twisting the weapon out of his hand, Marcus knocked him off balance and shoved him back into the chair. Fenton made no attempt to get up. Breathing hard, beads of perspiration glistened on his brow.
Marcus looked down on him with contempt. ‘I could kill you now if I chose, but, unlike you, murder has never been one of my favourite pastimes.’
Hearing heavy footsteps climbing down the companionway, Marcus turned when two soldiers appeared in the doorway. Seeing Fenton slumped in the chair, his bloodied shirt exposed, they peered at him suspiciously. It was obvious who was the stowaway.
One of the soldiers, a burly fellow, stepped forward. ‘In the name of the King, who are you?’
When Fenton remained silent, white-faced, his eyes burning with rage, Marcus obliged the soldiers. ‘His name is Fenton—Jacob Fenton.’
‘And who might you be?’ the soldier asked tentatively because there was an undeniable authority in Marcus’s stance and voice.
‘Lord Reresby of Saxton Court in Somerset. Until recently I was an officer in the King’s army.’
Respect flared in the soldier’s eyes. ‘Now there’s a turn-up. Fought at Sedgemoor, did you, my lord?’
Marcus nodded.
The stern expression of the gentleman’s countenance told the soldier that he was in no mood for cordial conversation, so he turned his attention on Fenton. ‘Setting aside the fact that this man is a stowaway, what has he done?’
‘Fenton played an important part in Monmouth’s rebellion. He was captured and escaped
the gallows by the skin of his teeth. He has been a fugitive since then—and, as you can see, he is wounded.’
‘Did you do that, sir?’
‘No.’
‘And might I ask what you are doing on board this vessel?’
‘You may. Captain Erskine is a personal friend of mine. My wife and I came to wish him bon voyage. He told us he had a stowaway on board, so I came to investigate. You can imagine my astonishment when I discovered the stowaway to be Mr Fenton. He used to be my bailiff, but what with one thing and another and his unacceptable political beliefs, I was forced to get rid of him.’
‘Aye, I can understand that. We’ll take him away—to the Tower, where he’ll no doubt be interrogated.’
‘He’ll hang,’ the other soldier mumbled. ‘No more than he deserves.’
Catherine watched them haul Fenton to his feet and bind his hands in front of him with a kind of horror. She knew the evil that inhabited the man and the deadly consuming hatred that he held for Marcus, a hatred she hoped and prayed he would not appease by exposing Harry. But as the soldiers took hold of him to drag him away and she saw his features contort with pain, unable to stand by and witness suffering of any kind, she took a step towards them.
‘Mr Fenton is badly wounded. There is no need for such rough handling.’
As if divining her thoughts, Fenton looked at her directly. His face was as rigid as if it had been carved out of stone, and his eyes gave an impression of extraordinary resignation. ‘My regards to your friend,’ he hissed, the words for her ears alone. ‘Maybe he will succeed where men like me failed.’ And then he was gone, stumbling his way up the ladder. Catherine waited tensely, and not until his footsteps could be heard no more did she turn to her husband.
Putting away his sword, Marcus looked at his wife, an array of fleeting emotions crossing his face as he slipped an arm about her waist and drew her close. ‘You must prepare yourself for what Fenton might tell them. If he exposes Harry, then I cannot see how I can help him,’ he said with inexpressible tenderness.
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