And further north, what of the other Morland households? Frances and John in Northumberland, young people with no particular reason to love King James, would they rise? In Scotland, without Cathy's firm hand on the reins, would they rise? And should she warn them of the plans, so that they could be ready, when to warn them might give them the power to betray the rising, deliberately or accidentally? In the end, she decided that the best and safest thing was to do nothing, except that she wrote to the King at St Germain promising him money to the limit of her estate should he need it; and she kept a small trunk packed with essentials and her jewels, ready to take flight instantly the rebellion began.
*
Matt was riding home one day at the beginning of winter, his cloak pulled up about his ears and his hat pulled down against the sharp and icy little wind - 'lazy wind' the people called it, for it was too lazy to go round a man but passed straight through him. Star, eager for his stable, was putting his feet down well, pulling lightly against the bit as he trotted smartly over the firm track down from Shipton Moor towards the village. Matt was aware of feeling pleasantly contented with his lot. He had just concluded a good deal over the sale of one of his horses, and was going home to his supper a richer man by five hundred guineas. At home India would be waiting for him, looking radiant as she always did at this stage of pregnancy. All his five boys were healthy and growing apace. Jemmy, who was devoted to his tutor, was shewing signs of being a scholar like his father; and tomorrow Matt had promised to hold the ceremony of breeching Robert, who was just five. Provided he could get home before it got too dark and cold, he would have nothing to complain of. He had five miles or so to go, and he put Star into a hand canter, letting the horse pick his own way across the rough ground.
In the village he was forced to come back to a walk, and then to halt entirely, for he came across the route of a funeral procession. Funerals were as common as blackberries, especially at this time of the year, and Matt doffed his hat automatically, taking note that though it was a poor man's funeral, nothing had been stinted that could be afforded. Matt's pity was roused when the bier came past, for on it was the coffin of an adult and two tiny ones as well, and as a man passed next in the position of chief mourner, Matt concluded sadly that it was a mother and two children that had died.
As he passed Matt, the man looked up briefly, and Matt saw a grief-ravaged face that seemed vaguely familiar. And then the man stopped altogether, and Matt cried out, ‘Davey, man, is it you?’
The procession straggled to a halt, and Matt flung himself from his horse and went impetuously towards Davey, hands outstretched, forgetting in his pleasure that they had parted with harsh words so many years ago; forgetting, just for a moment, that Davey was mourner in a funeral procession. Davey's rigid immobility reminded him. He dropped his hands, but could not prevent his face from breaking again and again into a grin of delight, which he would instantly repress in view of the bitter occasion. Davey looked at him with a kind of weary pity, behind which, if there was any pleasure it was well concealed.
‘Master Matt,' he said. 'Yes, it's me. You come across me at a poor time.'
‘Davey - oh Davey! Is it - are you - ?'
‘My wife, sir, and my two little boys. Smallpox, sir,' Davey said expressionlessly. Matt's face was a battleground of emotions, and Davey observed him wryly.
‘Oh Davey, I'm so sorry. God give them rest, and grant you acceptance. Poor Davey! I am so glad to see you, but so sorry that it is at such a sad time. But what have you been doing all this while? I have thought about you, often and often.'
‘Have you, master?' Davey said, looking at him oddly. ‘I've thought about you, too.'
‘We were friends - it's natural. But look, I am holding up your procession. Shall I walk with you? Would you let me?'
‘You, master? Attend a pauper's funeral?' Davey said harshly.
Matt looked uncomfortable. 'Not that, Davey, by all the evidence. Not a pauper.'
‘I shall be when this is done. I have lost everything, and I sold all I had left to give them a decent funeral, for I would not have them laid away like discarded rags. But when they are laid to rest, I shall have nothing but the clothes on my back. So now you know. I'm a pauper, for all that counts.'
‘You are still my friend, Davey. Let me walk with you.' Davey pulled himself up stiffly, and gave a queer little bow of his head.
‘If you will,' he said. There was no more said. Matt sent off his servant with a message for Morland Place, and took his place beside Davey, leading the indignant Star. The torches seemed to burn brighter as the dusk deepened.
After the funeral Matt took Davey with him to the village inn, and took a room for the night for them both, for it was too dark to travel on.
‘Where would you have slept?' Matt asked. Davey shrugged.
‘Under a hedge, if I could have found one safe from the constable. If the constable found me, I would have been whipped out of the parish as a beggar. You are keeping bad company, Master Matt. What would Father St Maur say?’
But Matt sensed behind the bitterness that Davey was glad to see him, and did not blame him, so he held his tongue and sent for supper for them both, and by his silence encouraged Davey to talk. By the time they had finished, he had heard the whole sad tale. Davey had gone to work for a farmer, and by dint of working every hour God sent, and saving almost to the point of madness, he had got enough to wed a servant girl with savings of her own.
‘A good girl, master, though not pretty. Hard working.
Older than me, of course. But a good girl. You would have liked her, I think.’
Their joint savings were just enough to buy a tiny cottage with common rights on the edge of the moor, and they had set up as long before he had seen his sister Betty set up -but with less money, and in harder country. At first things had gone well enough. Davey had taken day work, as had his wife, and they had kept a few pigs and chickens and a goat, and grown their beans in their scrap of garden, and cut turfs from the moor. But then Alice had become pregnant, and after a while grew too big to work. It had been more of a struggle, but they were surviving. Then the pigs got swine-fever, and that was the death-blow to their hopes.
The babies had been born, twin boys, and Alice, already beginning to feel the pinch of hunger, had not had enough milk to feed them. The goat's milk had not agreed with them, and they had had to buy cow's milk to keep the babies alive. They could not replace their pigs. They lived on beans and eggs and cabbage, but Alice was growing weaker, and needed better food. They killed one of the chickens, so there were fewer eggs; then another; then their master, who owned the cottage and the land around, had told them they must leave at the end of the year, for he wanted to improve the land. Davey had begun, desperately, to look for a place, but a man with a dependent wife and two babies was not wanted when a single man could be found.
‘The smallpox came almost as a release,' Davey said, his face indistinguishable in the gloom, turned away from the candle. 'First one of the babies took it, then the other. Alice nursed them. She was so brave, she never let me see her weeping. Then she got it too. She was too weak - she was starving to death in any case. They all died within hours of each other. God knows why I was spared. God keeps such knowledge to Himself.
‘So I sold what we had, the furniture, such as it was, and the blankets and pots, and paid for the funeral. She had solittle in life, I wanted her at least to have a decent funeral, poor girl.’
There was a long silence. They had finished eating, and there was only the wine left.
Davey said diffidently, 'I'm not accustomed to wine, master. It makes my tongue loose.'
‘Davey, come home with me,' Matt said abruptly. Davey looked up at him, and Matt knew he had been expecting it. 'Work for me,' he said, knowing Davey's pride must be comforted.
‘What as?' Davey asked. Matt opened his hands.
‘God, I don't know. Be my steward, my bailey, butler, manservant, clerk, I don't know. Be my right ha
nd. Be my friend. I have need of you, Davey. I don't know what title to give the need.’
Davey said slowly, 'I have to be able to believe that you do, Matt. Is it laughable? I can't afford pride. But I have nothing in the world - it is all that I can afford.'
‘I want to help you, because I love you,' Matt said simply, 'but I am only saying the truth. I do need you. I have always needed you. I never had a brother, you see. I have no one to help me.’
Davey looked at him now, and his expression softened. There was no denying such generosity. His eyes were bright with the tears he had avoided until now. He did not call him master, not then. He put his hand out across the table, and Matt placed his own over it, and Davey said, 'I will come home with you. I will serve you in whatever way I can. Thank you.' Matt shook his head, unable to speak, and Davey added, Now I owe you my life. I'll repay that debt, one day.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Karellie stood in the meagre shelter of a three-foot stone wall on the harbour-front at St Omer and huddled deeper into his cloak against the piercing February wind. Everything around him was grey - the grey walls of the harbour, the grey water slapping with a cold, oily sound against the dockside, the iron-grey sky, tearing into great scuds of wet cloud as the wind rose, and beyond the harbour, the grey, tossing, foam-shaken waste of the sea. Beyond it all lay England, green England, their objective, and Karellie stared hungrily into the murk as if he might catch a glimpse of his homeland.
Soon it would be dark, and time again to do the round of his men before retiring to his cramped billet in the town. They seemed to have been here for ever, doing nothing. Karellie's men had had the misfortune to be amongst the earliest to march into St Omer, so it was their fate to wait on the others. All through February the French and Irish soldiers had assembled here and at Dunkirk, where the ships also had been brought in a few at a time. The idea was to avoid any sudden congregation of ships and men that might alert possible English spies to the forthcoming invasion, for General Cadogan was at Ostend and in constant contact with Whitehall. So the slow assembly went on, and the firstcomers waited.
Fortunately, Karellie's men were still in good spirits, despite the bickering that had been going on amongst the upper echelons. Forbin and de Gace had been at daggers drawn from the beginning, Admiral Forbin holding that the whole plan was folly, for he said there was no guarantee of any support in Scotland, no port secured to them where they could definitely land safely, and no line of escape open if they should fail, since their heavy transport ships were slow and unweatherly. The King and the Minister of Marine had taken his advice so far as to exchange as many of the transports as possible for fast, light privateers, but still Forbin, who had charge of the naval side of the enterprise, was having difficulty in equipping his ships, and quarrelled with General de Gace, in charge of the army, about the noise and activity of the soldiers which was bound, he said, to draw attention to them.
Karellie had taken the opportunity while he was in St Omer to visit his uncle Edmund, Clovis's brother, at the seminary; a grey, shaven-head priest of fifty-four, with a strong resemblance to Clovis. Edmund received Karellie warmly, and they talked for some time about family matters before inevitably passing on to a discussion of the invasion. Edmund, Karellie found, was well informed about current affairs, for his life-long position as foreign correspondent to the family had caused him to build up a network of informants. He was not entirely sanguine about the chances of success.
‘The time is right, of course. The union has disaffected the Scots, and the King has reached his majority, and there is a great deal of hostility in both countries to the idea of the Hanoverian succession,' he said. 'But I'm afraid Forbin is right about some things. Six thousand men is not enough, without definite promise of help in Scotland, and despite Hoocke's efforts, not one single man has actually promised to come to arms when the King lands. Hoocke is a good man,' he added, 'but his enthusiasm for the cause leads him to exaggerate the amount of support in Scotland.'
‘But this is the time, you say?' Karellie said. 'After all, if not now, when?’
Edmund looked at him sadly. 'I'm afraid whenever the King attempts to regain his throne, he is going to have to rely on the King of France for help. And that means attacking when King Louis is ready. Whether this attempt fails or succeeds is immaterial to the King of France. It will at all events be a diversion from Flanders, you see, and he hopes that England will be forced to recall ships and men and thus give Louis an advantage, a chance to win back the ground he has lost to Marlborough.’
Karellie was shocked. 'You are wrong, I'm sure. The King of France is devoted to our King, and wants nothing more than to help him regain his rightful place.'
‘That too, of course,' Edmund said.
Karellie thought about that conversation as he watched the light fading from the grey sky. He did not like to have to consider complexities such as that. He wanted life to be simple. Perhaps Edmund was wrong, he thought. A gull came flying in from the seaward, hurtling with the wind and turning with a desperate lurch and flap at the wall to make a clumsy landing a few yards from Karellie. The gull jerked back and forth until it had adjusted its balance to the tug of the wind, and then turned its head sideways to stare warily at Karellie with its dark, distant eyes. Karellie felt the cold wind fingering its way down between his cloak-collar and his neck and he thought suddenly of Christmas in Venice, of the heat of the fires, of the brightly-lit rooms, almost as bright as a summer day, there were so many candles, and of the song-bird in a gilded cage which had been this year's present to Diane.
‘It will not sing so sweetly as you,' he had said, 'but it may serve to amuse you when you are resting your own voice.’
Diane was twelve, and growing tall, and she had begun to turn up her hair and wear headdresses. She was more on her dignity now, and did not laugh so readily, and sometimes, when they were alone together, he would catch her looking at him in a way that disturbed him, though he did not know why. But at Christmas she had been pleasantly childlike, reverting to her old ways, playing games and singing, and playing snap-dragon with burning raisins for the sake of the children, Alessandra, now eight, and four-year-old Giulia. It had been a bright and lovely time, lights, warmth, splendid food, spiced wine, brilliant colours reflected from every side by the host of glass mirrors, elegant men and beautiful women dancing and laughing and exchanging gifts and sly kisses. It was a good, warm memory to take out and polish now on this cold bleak afternoon.
Diane had been angry with him for missing a Christmas, and he had had to work hard to make it up to her by telling her stories of other Courts and the rich and famous people he had known. Maurice had been quieter and more withdrawn than before, for he had lost his second wife in childbirth, and was feeling it dreadfully.
‘I shan't marry again,' he told Karellie one evening when they were alone over their claret. 'I find perfection, and I despoil it. She would still have been alive if it had not been for me.’
Karellie tried to comfort him, but he would have none of it. He immersed himself more in his work, and what comfort he had he seemed to get from teaching his daughters music, and overseeing the career of Diane, whose voice was now strong enough for her to give occasional public performances, to her intense delight. Only Maurice's stern discipline prevented her from accepting every invitation to perform and thus ruining her voice altogether. Karellie had left reluctantly when the call came from Versailles, for the Carnival was almost upon them, and Maurice's former father-in-law, Alessandro Scarlatti, had arrived for the production of two of his operas in the Teatro San Giovanni Cristostomo. The reunion between him and Maurice had been lovely to see, as was his delight in his granddaughter, whom he pronounced the image of Apollonia. Then he had drawn his granddaughter upon his knee and begun to talk music with Maurice as if it were nine hours instead of nine years since they had last met. Karellie had listened for a while, bemused, and then had crept away to play with little Giulia, whom he felt was more his int
ellectual equal.
The gull gave a harsh cry and flapped away off the wall, bringing Karellie back to himself with a start. It was almost dark, and as he turned he saw his man, Sam, coming towards him. It was that which had startled the bird.
‘News, my lord,' Sam said as soon as he was near enough. 'The King has left St Germain and is on his way here.'
‘Thank God. Perhaps then we can start,' Karellie said. Sam turned down his mouth.
‘Well, my lord, a man who knows about these things says the weather is brewing up for gales. They always have them at this time of year. If the King doesn't get here soon, we'll be stuck here for weeks.’
Karellie shook his head. He knew nothing of sea matters. ‘I dare say they have taken that into account in their calculations. They must know of the gales. What news of my lord of Berwick?' Berwick had been stationed in Spain for the last year, but had left at once on hearing of the expedition. He would be serving as a private gentleman, because of the agreement he had made when he became a French citizen.
‘No more news, sir. He should be here before the King, at any rate. Will you come into supper now, my lord? It's growing late.’
Up in the town the first lights were shewing at windows, and their yellow glow at once made the dusk darker. Karellie felt tired and cold and hungry, and the thought of supper suddenly became of extremely cheering importance. ‘Yes, I'm coming now,' he said.
*
The King arrived at the beginning of March, but was evidently unwell, and the following day it was reported that he was seriously ill with measles. His sister, Louise-Marie, had been recovering from measles when he left St Germain, and evidently he had caught the disease from her. For three days he lay in bed running a high fever, and during this time it was reported that a squadron of thirty-eight English warships had moved up from Ostend to Gravelins, only two leagues away, evidently aroused by the activity at Dunkirk and St Omer, and there was talk of abandoning the whole enterprise. But on the fourth day the wind changed, lifting the fog and driving the English ships away, and the King, though too weak to walk, had himself carried on board the flagship Mars, and ordered the embarkation without any further delay.
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