by Jane Feather
Daniel was at first not alarmed by Harry’s absence when he awoke a half hour later. Reasoning that she was either visiting the still-intact privy at the rear of the farmhouse or stretching her legs now that the rain had slackened somewhat, he strolled outside himself. The sky was black with cloud, not a glimmer of moon or starshine, and an autumnal chill struck hard in the dank air.
A pitch-dark night was ill for traveling, he reflected, particularly when they were obliged to keep to the fields and woods. It was all too easy for a horse to miss his footing in a fox hole or blunder into the gorse and tear the skin of a hock. Mayhap they would be better advised to spend the night in this cheerless hole and risk a daytime journey on the morrow.
Frowning as he tried to make up his mind, he returned to the barn and was surprised to find that Harry had not returned. “Wherever could she have gone?” he demanded of the air and his two companions.
Tom shrugged, but Will chewed his lip and looked uneasy. “D’ye have some idea, Will?” Daniel asked, examining the young man carefully.
A pink flush stained Will’s cheeks, conflicting dramatically with the shock of red hair. “I beg your pardon, sir, for saying this, but ye shouldn’t have spoken as ye did to her. Harry doesn’t take kindly to having her ideas dismissed in such fashion, not when she’s set her heart on something and believes it will work.”
“Now, just a minute,” said Daniel in a slow, horrified realization of what Will was implying. “Are you trying to tell me that she has gone off in a passion?”
“Nay, sir.” Will scratched his head uncomfortably. “Not exactly. I think she has probably gone into Nottingham to try to acquire passes.”
“God’s good grace!” Daniel stared, horrendous images jostling in his head: Henrietta in her britches providing merry sport for a troop of lewd Roundhead soldiers in Nottingham Castle; Henrietta forced into revealing her true identity and that of her fugitive companions, together with their whereabouts; the imminent arrival of a troop of Roundheads bristling with pikes.
“A wild, hoity maid,” adjudged Tom, sucking on a piece of straw. “We’d best be away afore she brings the ’ole New Model down upon us.”
“We cannot leave, Tom,” Daniel said sharply. “We cannot risk her returning and finding us gone.”
“I will stay for her,” Will spoke up. “’Tis my responsibility, when all’s said and done. If it hadn’t been for me, she’d not have been here in the first place.”
Daniel gave a mirthless laugh. “I am not convinced of that fact, young Will. Mistress Ashby had no intention of accepting the destiny planned for her. Following you provided romantic excuse to flee.”
Will looked startled, as if such an idea had never occurred to him. “D’ye think she is not in love with me, then, sir?”
“I think she believes she is,” Daniel said. “I do not mean to prick your vanity—”
“Oh, no, sir, you have not,” Will hastened to reassure him. “I confess ’twould be something of a relief if it were the case.”
In spite of his present dismay, Daniel could not help smiling at this frank statement. Master Osbert was no stricken swain but the hapless victim of a considerably stronger will. He strode to the door, peering out into the blackness. An owl screeched and a small animal screamed in pain and fear. They were not reassuring sounds for hunted men. “Tom, you and Will ride from here some five or six miles to the south. Find some concealment and wait for me. If I do not come up with you by mid-morning, then ye must make shift for yourselves. I will remove from the barn and find some place where I may watch for her return. There is no reason why we should be caught like rats in a trap.”
They went their separate ways, Tom and Will trotting into the darkness, leading Harry’s nag. Daniel turned his charger loose in a field behind the farm and found himself a broad oak tree. It was an uncomfortable resting place; although the rain had ceased, the leaves dripped dolefully down his neck, his leg muscles cramped rapidly, and his mind turned to the savage contemplation of reprisals when and if Mistress Henrietta Ashby deigned to reappear.
Henrietta reached Nottingham Castle just as the great portcullis was being dropped for the night. “I pray ye, sir, let me through,” she said, genuinely out of breath. “I would have speech with the officer who issues passes for safe conduct.”
The soldiers in the gatehouse stared in astonishment. The voice was that of a country girl, the garb of a lad. “What be ye?” one of them demanded roughly. “Art wench?”
“Aye,” she agreed, pulling off her cap to free the corn silk-colored mass that tumbled in profusion down her back. “’Deed I am, good sir, but I’ve need of this habit. ’Tis not safe for a maid along the roads in these times.” She shuddered. “There’s Royalists and all sorts about, armed to the teeth and ready to make sport with a simple wench.”
The soldiers laughed uproariously. “Aye, I’ll be bound. Y’are a sweet morsel, wench. Come ye in, then, if’n y’are coming.”
They opened the postern gate, and Henrietta slipped by them, stifling a squeak as a hand came down in an intimate pat on the curve of her backside. “I beg ye, good sir, take me to the captain in charge of passes.”
“All in good time.” The soldier chuckled. “Ye’ll be glad of a cup of ale on a night like this. ’Tis lonely in the guardroom, is it not, Jack? We’d be glad of a little company.”
Henrietta realized that she had not thought of this complication. She tugged her jerkin tighter over her breasts and showed her companions an anxious face. “If ye please, sirs, I’m in the most fearful haste. My father lies sick in London and I’ve to take me grandfer to ’im. ’E’s fallen on terrible hard times, my father has, although ’e’s powerful strong for Parliament. But if ’e passes on ’afore we reaches ’im, ’tis a pauper’s grave will receive ’im.”
Babbling frantically, she managed to dodge the hands that would stroke and pat, scampering up the narrow flight of stone stairs to the round chamber that housed the guards.
It was warm and cozy in there, a fire sizzling in the grate, a flagon of wine upon the stained plank table. Two soldiers, tunics unbuttoned, sat at their ease beside the fire. “Well, well, what ’ave we ’ere?” one of them said jovially. “What’ve ye found, Dick?”
“Why, ’tis a wench in lad’s garb,” chuckled Dick. “Wants passes for ’erself and ’er grandpa.”
“And my brother and ’is friend to provide escort,” Henrietta put in, the words tumbling over themselves. “Me grandfer is all of nine and seventy and can barely move ’isself.”
“Then ye’d best leave ’im be’ind,” declared Dick. “Can ye not take what’s needed without the old man?”
Henrietta swallowed and improvised wildly. “’Tis me father’s last wish to see ’is father afore he passes on. They’ve been on terrible bad terms these last years. And Grandfer says ’e’ll not rest easy ’imself without makin’ peace.”
Jack nodded sagely, tipping the flagon to his lips. “Aye, family troubles is bad. Was the same, as I remember, with my Uncle Job and ’is youngest. Didn’t speak two words for twenty year, though they lived but a spit apart.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the flagon to Henrietta. “Take a drink, lass. ’Tis a raw night.”
“Nay, I thank ye,” Henrietta said hastily. “Pray take me to the captain.”
“’Tis not the captain as issues passes, wench,” one of the men by the fireside told her with a salacious chuckle. “’Tis the sergeant, and ye’ll ’ave to sweet talk ’im. Mebbe for a kiss, ’e’ll be willin’ to oblige.”
“I thought Cromwell’s men were not the kind to take advantage of a maid,” Henrietta said with a doleful sniff. “’Tis unkind when I’m in such distress.” She knuckled her eyes, trying to make them water convincingly. “I’ve never kissed anyone, not even my Ned, ’n we’re to be wed when I’ve got me bottom drawer together.”
Peeping at them through her fingers, she saw that she had struck the right note. These rough country men had their o
wn rules, and a girl of their own kind, affianced and virtuous, would not meet with lewd treatment.
“Cease yer weepin’, wench,” Dick said gruffly. “No one means ye any ’arm. ’Tis just a bit ’o fun. But ye should not be paradin’ in them britches. ’Tain’t decent.”
“Nay, I am aware,” she said with another sniff. “’N Ned would ’ave summat to say if ’e knew. But what’s a maid to do with no man to protect ’er? ’Tis terrible times we live in.”
“Aye, that it is.” One of the fireside sitters stood up, fastening his tunic. “Come with me, lass. I’ll take ye to the sergeant. I’ve a maid not much bigger ’n ye at ’ome.”
Thankfully, Henrietta followed the soldier out of the round chamber along a stone-walled corridor to a heavy, ironbound wooden door. The trooper knocked. A growl bade them enter and Henrietta’s escort pushed her ahead of him into another fire-warmed chamber.
A bullet-headed man in an immaculate tunic sat at a big table. “Well,” he demanded. “What’s this then, Trooper Bates?”
Trooper Bates, standing rigidly to attention, explained the situation.
The sergeant listened impassively, his eyes fixed on the girl, who had little difficulty in looking petrified, since that was exactly how she felt. Henrietta knew only too well what happened to those suspected of treason who might have information to impart. Torture was used indiscriminately, and her sex would not protect her from the hideous fate of those who were broken in the dungeons of Nottingham Castle—broken only to meet the hangman. She shivered despite the sweat that misted her palms and gathered on her upper lip.
“Where does your father dwell, girl?” the sergeant asked when the trooper fell silent.
Henrietta had her answer prepared. “In Spittal Fields, sir, if you please.”
“His name?”
“Bolt, if you please, sir.”
“I’m not sure that I do,” the sergeant said irascibly. “Stop shaking, girl, no one’s going to harm ye. Cromwell’s New Model army doesn’t wage war on women and children.”
“No, sir,” Henrietta murmured, shaking now with relief. “But ’tis just that I’m desperate, sir. I don’t want me father to rest in a pauper’s grave. They say they don’t even wrap ’em afore they throws ’em in—” Great sobs burst from her lips, preventing further speech, and she buried her face in her hands.
“Odd’s bones,” muttered the sergeant, reaching for paper and quill. “Can’t abide weeping women. It’ll cost ye a crown, girl.”
“’Tis a great sum for me, sir.” Henrietta sniveled, reaching into the pocket of her jerkin for one of the coins. “But ’tis worth it to see me father buried decent.”
“A Malignant would give me five pound for such a pass,” the sergeant informed her irritably, pocketing the crown. “What are the names to go on here?”
“Bolt, sir,” Henrietta said. “I’m Meg Bolt, ’n me grandfer’s Daniel Bolt, ’n me brother’s Will Bolt, ’n ’is friend who’s comin’ fer protection is Tom…Tom Grant, sir.”
“And y’are going to Spittal Fields?”
“Aye, sir, if you please, sir.”
There was silence, disturbed only by the scratching of quill on parchment and Henrietta’s noisy sniffs. At last the sergeant shook the sandcaster over the parchment, dropped wax from the candle upon it, and pressed Parliament’s seal into the wax. “There.” He handed the parchment to her. “Ye may travel freely from here to Spittal Fields in the city of London, but nowhere else. If ye stray from the route and are challenged, this pass will not guarantee ye safe passage. ’Tis understood?”
“Aye, sir, yer honor, sir. I can’t thank ye enough, sir.” Backing to the door, clutching the precious parchment, Henrietta gabbled inanely, interspersed with frequent sniffs.
The sergeant impatiently waved the trooper after her. “See the wench beyond the gate, Bates. And I’ll thank ye to bring me no more of that kind this night.”
“Come along a’me, lass.” Trooper Bates smiled kindly. “’E’s not a bad sort, the sergeant, but ’e don’t like ’is evenings disturbed.”
In five minutes, Henrietta was outside the castle, safe conduct to London for three men and a woman in her jerkin pocket, and a three-mile walk through the dark night ahead of her. But exhilaration winged her feet—exhilaration and triumph. Sir Daniel and Tom had scorned her plan and even Will had been less than encouraging. Now, without a scrap of help from any of them, she had secured the passes that would enable them to travel swiftly and in some comfort. So jubilant was she that not even the thought of what journey’s end in London might bring could dampen her self-congratulation.
It was close to midnight when she reached the ruined farm. Only then did it occur to her to wonder what the others had made of her disappearance. She stood for a moment in the yard, her heart hammering, her eyes peering into the darkness, now lightened by the fleeting glimmer of a shy moon. Perhaps they believed her lost or taken by soldiers. If so, they would surely have left. They were intending to continue the journey by night as usual. Could they have done so? Abandoned her? No, Will would have known what she intended. He would have known that she could not have endured such a snub as Sir Daniel had administered without proving him wrong. Will would have made them stay for her return. He would have, wouldn’t he?
With a surge of panic, she ran to the barn and stood panting in the doorway, gazing into the deserted, pitchy shed. She did not need light to tell her it was empty of all but rats. There were no horsey stirrings and whifflings and no sense at all of a human presence.
“By God, Henrietta, how dare you do such a thing! How dare you disappear in such reckless, thoughtless fashion.”
She spun around with a cry, half of relief and half of alarm, at the enraged whisper behind her. “Oh, Sir Daniel, I thought you had left me.”
“’Twould be the least you deserve,” he said savagely. “I have spent the last four hours in the crotch of an oak tree, and heaven alone knows how Will and Tom are faring.”
“But I have a pass for all of us,” she said, the words tumbling over themselves as she felt for the parchment in her jerkin. “See.” She held it out to him. “I said I would do it, and I did.”
Daniel stared at the document. It was too dark to make out the script, but there was no mistaking the seal. “How the devil did you achieve this?”
“I said I would.” She could not conceal the smug note or the unspoken challenge, despite the feeling that Sir Daniel Drummond was not in a mood to respond to either with equanimity. “You did not believe it possible.”
“I do not entirely believe that you are possible,” he declared, pushing her into the barn. “Do not move one inch. I must fetch flint and tinder.”
Henrietta remained where she had been put until Daniel reappeared. Flint scraped against tinder and a golden glow of candlelight illuminated the space where they stood. He held the candle high and examined her carefully before turning his attention to the parchment. A low whistle escaped him.
“’Twould seem I underestimated you, Mistress Ashby. I will not do so again. And you—” He caught her chin, tilting her face. “You will never again disappear in such fashion. It is understood?”
“If you do not oblige me to do so, I will not,” she said simply. “I do not think you should be vexed, Sir Daniel. I am not taken prisoner. We have lost nothing and gained much.” Her big brown eyes regarded him earnestly, and her lower lip was caught between her teeth as she offered a questioning, hesitant smile.
It took a minute, but at last he laughed. It was a tiny sound to begin with, then, as relief and admiration at her outrageous audacity burgeoned to chase away the anger born of fear, gusts of mirth rose to the rafters. “You had best tell me the whole,” he gasped eventually. “We must stay here until dawn, when we can go in search of Will and Tom.”
“I am very hungry,” Henrietta said as reality reasserted itself, quashing exhilaration under an anticlimactic wash of fatigue. “But I suppose we do not have any supper. The guards
offered me wine, but I was too afeard to take any.”
“With cause,” he observed. “We shared the bread and cheese and ale before Tom and Will went off. There is a little left in my saddlebag. I will fetch it for you, although going supperless to bed seems an apt penalty.” The amusement still lurked in his voice, however, and Henrietta heard no sting in the statement.
She ate hungrily, drank thirstily, and told her tale to an attentive audience. By story’s end, she could barely keep her eyes open and her words were lost in a series of yawns. “I beg your pardon, but I seem to be falling asleep.” She blinked like a dopey kitten, and he smiled, thinking not for the first time that Henrietta Ashby did have the most appealing countenance.
“Lie down then,” he suggested, picking up the horse blanket. She curled onto the straw and was asleep almost before he had tucked the blanket around her.
He lingered on his knees beside the slight figure, his hand resting on her shoulder where he had been adjusting the blanket. A puzzled frown drew his dark brows together over the aquiline nose and one finger moved almost without volition to trace the curve of her cheek, flushed delicately in sleep. What was it about this indomitable young hoyden that so disturbed him? It was long before Daniel Drummond joined her in sleep.
Chapter 4
It was the end of September when they arrived in London. The safe conduct had served them well and Henrietta’s dress was once more appropriate to her sex. Over her gown she wore a safeguard, the overskirt that would protect her clothes from the hazards of riding through the rain and mud. Her hair was confined beneath a round black cap suited to a member of the bourgeoisie, and a serviceable cloak of russet frieze kept out the wind. It was hardly attire of the first style of elegance, but Sir Daniel had pointed out that the less conspicuous they appeared the better, so Henrietta, with no more than minor grumbles about wearing a porringer upon her head, resigned herself to mediocrity. Will and Daniel had abandoned the lace and sash of the Cavalier and were dressed as merchants, the epitome of peace-loving men whose only interest in these troubled times was the making of money. Tom was himself, a solid yeoman riding as escort.