The Goldsmith's Wife (The Woulfes of Loxsbeare Book 2)

by Anita Seymour

  Hendrick sat beside his royal master, making copious notes from the king’s barked instructions, his quill speeding across the page in his own style of abbreviated script. Aaron hoped he could decipher it all accurately later on. Marshall Schomberg waved his arms as he talked, jabbing a finger at the maps of Drogheda and pointing out the strategic places from which to launch their attack.

  Aaron couldn’t help admiring the old Huguenot, seventy-five years old and still eager for a fight. This enthusiasm was enhanced by the fact the king had openly expressed disappointment at his commander’s failure to conclude the campaign of the previous August.

  Schomberg had secured Ulster and pushed James Stuart’s men south to Dundalk, but instead of routing the Jacobites who stood between them and Dublin as the king demanded, they withdrew to winter quarters. King William baulked at the expense and inconvenience of what he considered a mean little country that should have been easily overcome. The last thing he had wanted, as his officers knew to their cost, was to cross the Irish Sea to take command.

  “This time,” he had told Aaron, “I’m determined to drive the Stuart out of Ireland altogether.” He had paused a moment, holding up a hand as if a revelation had occurred. “You haf battle experience, Master Woulfe. What say you accompany me to Ireland as one of my officers?” His hooded eyes had challenged Aaron to refuse, and the second the words, “I should be honoured, Your Majesty,” had left Aaron’s his lips, he had regretted them.

  There had been little time for doubt in the haste of being measured for his new uniform and the organisation of equipment. Even taking farewell of his siblings had been brief and unsatisfactory, so that in no time at all, he stood on the foredeck of the yacht Mary, with Sir Cloudesley Shovell beside him, watching forty heavily laden troop ships and three hundred transports weave their way into Carrickfergus Harbor.

  The march to Drogheda passed in a strange, dream-like experience, traversing through villages and towns where locals watch them pass from the roadside with the wizened, surly faces of those who spent their time outdoors. Wherever they went, suspicious eyes cast in their direction, and even the smells were alien, earthy somehow and overlaid by the burning peat they used as fuel.

  The poorer sort lived on a diet of root vegetables and sour milk, going barefoot more often than not. When they paused at a village to rest the horses, Aaron asked for ale at one house, but was told they rarely had any.

  “They appear not to have any locks on the doors of those mean cabins they live in,” he had observed in a whisper to Hendrick.

  “Not because there are no thieves, but because dere is simply not’ink to steal.” The Dutchman’s laugh held a tinge of sympathy.

  “One abiding memory I shall carry always,” Aaron snarled, slapping at his neck, “is the perpetual itching from fleas, or lice, or whatever infests this place.”

  “The mites are not quite so vicious in London,” Hendrick agreed.

  A young girl stood alone on the grass verge bedside the road. She was dressed shabbily, but her stance emanated a quiet pride, her stare fixed morosely at the line of soldiers. The mass of dark curls flowing down her back brought Helena’s face into his head, and the look it held on the evening before he left.

  He knew it was cowardly to announce his departure during supper at Lambtons with the Devereuxs present, but he had no heart for the task and put it off until the last moment. Horror, then disbelief had chased across her features before she launched an onslaught of bitter recriminations, her anger threatening to overwhelm her.

  “Ellie, please try to understand,” he had pleaded. “My master has commanded me. I’ve no choice.”

  “You will fight?” Her voice was childlike and trembling.

  “Possibly…probably. Yes, I think so. Oh, Ellie, don’t look at me like that. I have to go. Don’t you see?”

  She had not understood, or refused to. She kept repeating the horror she went through after the rebellion, waiting to hear if he was alive or dead, constantly terrified of losing him.

  He had tried to comfort her but she pushed him away and stormed out of the dining room, her lower lip trembling as she dashed tears from her cheeks.

  His heart twisted and he had gone after her, wishing Guy had not had business elsewhere so he could have reasoned with her. Thank goodness for William Devereux, who seemed the only one able to offer her any comfort.

  She was still crying into William’s shoulder when Aaron left. He hated hurting her, when she was one of the two people left in the world he cared for.

  At least Henry had understood. He seemed proud, and even a little envious his brother was doing his part to protect his master’s sovereignty and offered no criticism. Henry gripped his hand firmly and wished him well. His touch made Aaron realize his little brother was a young man now, and someone whose opinion mattered to him.

  A horse neighed on the far side of the tent, bringing Aaron’s thoughts back to the present. The parchment beneath the king’s hand crackled and he brought his gaze back to the stark white sling that bound King William’s arm.

  Earlier that day, while assessing the Jacobite forces encamped on the other side of the river, the order to depart was given and the men had turned to leave. Without warning, the Jacobite guns opened fire, possibly as a demonstration of strength rather than any attempt to attack, but by an incredible fluke, the king took a bullet.

  It must have been very painful, yet he exhibited no sign of either discomfort or fatigue. Aaron wished those of his subjects who called him the, “Hunchback Dutchman” could see his courage now.

  Schomberg leaned his meaty arms on the table, expounding his options of an attack, but the king appeared to give them cursory attention. Beside him, the younger Meinhart whispered fiercely to his parent, but whether it was a warning or encouragement, Aaron couldn’t tell.

  “From our position here.” The man beside Aaron jabbed a thick finger at the map spread out in front of them. “We command the whole of the left bank from Drogheda to Slane Bridge. The river here is easily fordable when the tide is out. Even at high water, several fords remain passable.” He turned a smirk on Aaron, who squirmed in his seat beside him. Major General Percy Kirke, the man set against him at Sedgemoor, made Aaron nervous, but he glared back, refusing to be intimidated.

  “We should mount a frontal attack.” The Count of Solms-Braunfels thumped a fist on the table. “To do otherwise is cowardice.”

  Aaron appraised his superior officer, the commander of the famous Dutch Blue Guards, King William’s elite infantry unit, most of whom were Catholics. If he had to fight, at least he was doing so with good men, although it seemed ironic they might have to maim and kill those of their own religion.

  Aaron glanced at Hendrick, who rolled his eyes, acknowledging their mutual irritation at the constant squabbling which divided the Dutch and English officers.

  King William spoke at last. “We’ll cross the river at three separate points to attack at Oldbridge, where two of Stuart’s regiments are camped.” He held up his uninjured arm to silence their murmured protests. “Masters Schomberg? You will take the left wing up river to the Slane, and turn into the enemy’s left flank. Split the Jacobite army and force them to defend two fronts.”

  Father and son exchanged a look before agreeing, their expressions eerily similar, though the elder Schomberg, Aaron knew, was more used to giving orders than receiving them. “Most of James Stuart’s troops haven’t even improved the river line position with breastworks,” Aaron observed.

  “You’re right, Master Woulfe.” King William offered one of his rare smiles.

  “’Tis a shame both armies favour red coats,” Kirke said with a sneer. “Makes it harder telling the Jacobites from our own men.”

  King William glared hard at him, reminding Aaron that he too had no respect for Kirke, due to his legendary savagery toward the rebels in ’eighty-five. “Our quartermaster cannot equip thirty-six thousand men with alternatives at this late date, sir.”

&nbs
p; Kirke fell silent and Aaron fought the grin which tugged at his mouth.

  The council was finally dismissed and with a heavy sigh, he hurried to catch up with Hendrick, who strode towards the officers’ tents beneath the falling pink and orange dusk. Schomberg brushed past them, still scowling, while his son ran alongside offering sympathetic noises.

  “I doubt I shall sleep tonight,” Aaron said as Hendrick paused on the rise behind the village of Tullyallen to watch the summer sunset and the river, beyond which the Jacobite camp lay. “My bed is hard and my tent traps the wind coming off the river.”

  Hendrick narrowed his blue eyes, his chin in his hand as he studied the landscape. “We have ten thousand more men and are better equipped against their slow loading matchlocks.”

  “Our flintlocks will perform better, and don’t forget we have thirty-six field guns.” Aaron tried to sound reassuring, but memories he fought to suppress still plagued him. “Some of the Irish foot soldiers have muskets, but others carry no more than scythes or iron-tipped staffs.”

  Hendrick seemed to consider this, but the face he turned towards him was drawn. “I’m not a combat soldier. I’ll remain here tomorrow with my papers and the supplies, but I am fearful.” He stared off into the distance. “For my master, and for you.”

  Aaron swallowed to clear the sharp tickle rising in his throat. “If I have half our king’s courage, I shall be well enough.”

  “You must. How could I face your sister if anything happened to you?”

  Aaron threw back his head and laughed. “That task I would not envy you, but trust me, Hendrick. We’ll be going home again.”

  Hendrick stared off in silence, lifting a hand to rest beneath his cravat, where he wore a miniature portrait of Phebe on a ribbon. Observing his gesture, Aaron was envious, and yet at the same time relieved he had no wife to fret for him in London.

  With a brief goodnight, Aaron ducked his head and entered his tent, where his sergeant had hung his uniform from one of the tent struts ready for the morning.

  Aaron’s glance fell on the uniform coat with its heavy braid and gleaming buttons. He never imagined he would wear such a thing again, not after Sedgemoor. The noises of the settling camp drifted in on the night air as he climbed into the narrow camp bed. The hard truckle irritated his back already, the rough blankets offering no comfort. A memory surfaced and he gave an involuntary shiver despite the night being warm.

  He lay with his head on a propped elbow, sleep a long way off as his mind filled with the dull boom of guns, hooves pounding, and men screaming. He squeezed his eyes shut and impatient, turned onto his side, pushing the images away.

  * * *

  July 1690, Tullyallen, Ireland – Aaron

  Aaron watched the sunrise through his tent flap, the fields down to the river bathed in a fiery glow. He could not reconcile such a perfect start to a day when men would die. Unable to eat, despite his sergeant’s entreaties, he joined his fellow officers to watch General Schomberg lead his column westwards toward Slane, away from the battlefield in an attack on the Jacobites’ left wing from the rear.

  “It’s just a decoy, Hendrick.” Aaron jerked his chin at the enemy lines. “Let us hope the Stuart takes the bait.”

  Arms folded across his chest Hendrick stared with a disdainful expression across the river. “Look up there. The Stuart sits on his horse on a hilltop to view the battle. He chooses not to lead his men personally.”

  “Even with his injury, you can be sure King William will be in the thick of it.” Hendrick nodded, giving the first smile Aaron had seen him display that morning. “Here comes the Count of Solms-Braunfels with his three regiments of guards. Time to go, my friend.”

  Aaron lifted a hand to wave and urged his horse down the slope, silently repeating the order of fire he had practiced for days with his men. “Form into seven ranks, the front three fire together with first rank crouched, second kneeling, third standing. Fourth, fifth and sixth rank step forward and fire while the first three reload. Pikes remain at the rear unless cavalry approach.”

  “Are you prepared for the battle, Master Woulfe?” Solms-Braunfels reined in his horse beside Aaron’s interrupting his internal chant.

  “Sir? Oh, yes, sir.” Aaron took in the impressive sight of the two thousand men they would lead against the Jacobites. King William, his wounded shoulder strapped tight, easily distinguished him at the front of the column.

  “Slane Bridge has been broken down by James Stuart’s troops, so we shall ford the river at a point near Rosnaree.” The Count gave the signal for them all to cross the river. “The Jacobites are gathered on the plane over there.” He cocked his chin toward the far side of the river, then something caught his eye and he sat straighter in his saddle. “Well, look at that. The Stuart has taken the bait. He’s sent what looks like half his men after Schomberg.”

  Aaron followed the Count’s gaze to where rows upon rows of men wearing white cockades, worn by the Irish in acknowledgment of their French comrades.

  “I see them,” Aaron pointed, “the remaining Jacobites are taking up position on the south bank. Looks like they’re preparing their cannon.”

  “Indeed they are, Master Woulfe.” The Count signalled to the drummers with his sword. “Play Lillibulero, boys. That’ll upset the Teague rabble.”

  The infantry took up the rhythm of the stirring Orange anthem, the ground vibrating beneath their feet as they quickened the march.

  Aaron’s heart pumped as he lined his men up at the riverbank ten abreast. At a shouted order, they pitched forward into the shallow water against the Jacobite soldiers who surged toward them from the other side. The tide was low at this point, the ford shallow, but further in, Aaron knew, the current would be strong.

  “Prepare to hold your muskets over your heads, men!” Aaron waved his sword with one arm, keeping a firm grip on the reins with the other. A shudder went through his mount and Aaron cursed under his breath. Recognizing the animal wanted to roll into the water, he issued a stern warning and a flick of the reins the animal seemed to understand.

  The sheer mass of men seemed to halt the current as it lapped their shoulders.

  At a swift kick, Aaron’s horse launched himself into the river. He hoped he wouldn’t have to demonstrate his skills as a swimmer.

  “Hold your fire until we reach the bank,” Aaron hollered, but the order was barely necessary, the men knew what they were doing and scrambled onto the riverbank, crouching into their ranks in preparation.

  “Halt and fire!” Aaron’s bellowed order was answered by a heavy volley at the waters’ edge.

  A stream of Jacobite cavalry thundered toward them, led by the Duke of Berwick, swarming across a ford further upstream.

  James Stuart’s twenty-year-old illegitimate son by Arabella Churchill shrieked at his soldiers to fall on the Dutch Blues. Briefly, Aaron hesitated, struck by the youth of his opponent. Then one of his own men took a musket ball to the chest and collapsed with a gargled shout in front of him, and his resolve hardened again.

  Aaron screamed another order, but the well-disciplined Dutch guards needed no reminders. They fired, loaded and fired again in a relentless rhythm, beating back the Jacobites, whose ragged return fire made little impression.

  With most of their men having reached the far bank, the king’s cry of, “Charge!” went up and the Dutch Guards did not hesitate. With a collective roar, they pounded forward through the whistling and cracking of musket fire aimed at them from across the plain, picking men off from behind hedges and houses.

  At the first volley, the enemy seemed to be holding their own, effectively beating back the king’s men, but seemed unable to gain any ground.

  Suddenly a runner appeared at Aaron’s knee. “What is it boy?” he snapped, as the lad gasped for breath.

  “Their commander, Nial O’Neill is wounded, sir. The enemy is weakening.” The boy scampered away to deliver his news further up the line.

  Relief streamed through Aaron
as he called another order to advance through a protesting throat, sore from shouting.

  His breeches were wet to his thighs, his sword arm aching and sore. But this time there was less resistance as he slashed at the foot soldiers swarming round his men.

  Then another runner dashed past, screaming at the top of his lungs that Schomberg had gained Oldbridge.

  Aaron grinned with pride. No matter that it was a mean little village with few houses and no fortifications. It was theirs.

  Elated, he gave the order for his guards to fix socket bayonets, sending them scrambling up the bank into the hedges and walls of Oldbridge to rout out the enemy.

  Aaron’s horse scrambled up the slippery bank, but his balance shifted when an Irish infantryman appeared from nowhere and grabbed his right boot. At the first hard jerk, the rein slipped from Aaron’s hands. He clutched at the pommel in a desperate effort to stay with the horse, but the soldier hung on, twisting Aaron’s leg until he thought his knee would separate from his lower limb.

  The startled horse shuddered, shaking Aaron’s hold. His hands lost their grip on the saddle and his other foot slipped from the stirrup. He hit the ground, the breath forced from his lungs, and with no way of stopping it, the animal bolted.

  The Irishman loomed above him, his sword arm raised high.

  Aaron twisted first one way, then the other to avoid the blow. There was no purchase in the mud to get back on his feet and all he could do was cover his head with his arms to keep the treacherous blade from cutting into his face. Where’s my sword? It was in my hand a moment ago?

  The fear of trampling by the heaving horses and falling bodies around him became real and his arm stung. Grunting with the effort, he clamped his hands on his attacker’s sword arm. The blade got closer and his wet hands began to slip. A few feet away, a man crouched on the grass, a musket lifted to his shoulder to take aim.