Lover's Knot

by Louise Clark

  Their rescuer’s horsemanship was superb. Recognition flashed in Alysa’s mind, but she dismissed it. Surely this was not Sir Philip Hampton. How could it be? He did not know that Thomas was to arrive in England tonight. Or did he? Had it been he who had alerted the Roundheads of the time and place of the meeting?

  Questions danced in her mind, then were forgotten in the danger of the moment. The trooper chasing them had decided to ignore the man who was following him and seek the glory of a capture instead. He urged his horse to run faster, but the extra speed was his undoing. A depression in the sand, hidden by tufts of coarse sea grass, was in his path and his flying mount could do nothing to save itself as it put one hoof into the hole. The animal tripped, fell to its knees and the trooper flew over its head into the soft sand. Winded, but otherwise unhurt, he was able to stand after a minute and watch his prey fade into the gloom, followed by the wild cavalier, who had emerged from the shadows. Cursing softly, he brushed himself off and went to see to his horse.

  Safe on the high ground, Lord Strathern and Alysa slowed their horses and looked back at the beach. Several Roundheads lingered there, but there was no sign of Thomas, the other members of the greeting party or the elusive rescuer. Alysa shivered. “Do you think Thomas escaped, Papa?”

  Lord Strathern was silent for a moment; then he smiled rather grimly. “If the Roundheads had captured Thomas there would have been a great cry of success. Yes, Alysa, I think your brother was able to escape.”

  They rode on, heading for Strathern Hall by indirect means. On the familiar roads and paths, Alysa felt secure enough to voice the questions that had nagged at her on the beach. “Papa, how could someone from West Easton betray us to the Roundheads? Everyone in the village has suffered at their hands. I thought we were all agreed that it was best for England to overthrow the Lord Protector.”

  Strathern was grim. “Evidently not everyone is what he pretends to be.” He turned to Alysa. “I was a fool to allow your protestations to override my good sense. You should not have been there this night, Alysa. Had we been caught—” He broke off, shaking his head. “If it had not been for that unknown gentleman riding out of the darkness and surprising the Roundheads we would have been caught.”

  “Not unknown, Papa,” Alysa said somberly. She waited for her father to question her silently with a look before continuing, “I believe the man was Sir Philip Hampton.”

  “Hampton! What the devil was he doing there tonight?” Lord Strathern’s expression hardened. “Alysa, listen to me. Now that Thomas is in England and the Roundheads know it, we will be under scrutiny. You must be careful! Not only do we have to contend with the Roundhead troops, but we have a traitor in our midst.”

  Alysa shivered. “Sir Philip?”

  Strathern sighed. “I don’t know. I can think of no reason why Sir Philip Hampton would have been at Fenwick Cove tonight. If he was the one who betrayed Thomas he would have stayed away. Certainly he would never have ensured that your brother was able to escape. Be that what it may, the question remains: why was he there?”

  Not, Alysa hoped, because he was indebted to the Protectorate for his inheritance and willing to do anything to pay them back. For some reason, she did not want to believe that Philip Hampton was capable of betraying his friends. But she could not be sure. Nor, she acknowledged as they neared Strathern Hall, could she rest until she had discovered who the traitor was.

  *

  The next day, West Easton and area became unpleasantly aware that the Protectorate was not entirely without teeth. The soldiers were out early, despite their late night, patrolling the roads, combing the woodlands, pushing their way into the houses of the lower orders and pounding on the doors of the better class of people. Oliver Cromwell might be dead, but the military machine he had created continued relentlessly on.

  Philip Hampton was visited shortly after dawn. He had expected a house-by-house search and had deliberately retired to his bed, even though he had returned to Ainslie late and had not yet been asleep. Appearances were everything in a situation like this. If questioned, his servants would not have to lie about rousing him and if the troops took it into their head to surprise him in his room, he would be innocently in bed and grouchy at being awakened so suddenly.

  He hadn’t been surprised last night when he’d seen the troop of cavalry burst from the trees. Long years of experience at court and in the army had taught him that the safest secret was one that remained unspoken. The more people who knew, the more likely it was that the secret would be whispered into the wrong ears. It was far too difficult to convince people that keeping a confidence meant telling no one, including one’s nearest and dearest.

  He had heard the details of the rendezvous spoken of in a normal tone in broad daylight in a public place, which meant that the arrival of Thomas Leighton was being discussed by virtually everyone in the vicinity. After considerable soul-searching, Philip had decided that he would not tell Osborne of the news he had learned. After a devastating event like the arrest of Thomas Leighton, the good people of West Easton would feel the need to lay blame, and what better candidate for scapegoat than the stranger in their midst. Philip would immediately be suspected and that would not suit his long-term goals at all.

  There was another, less personal reason for his decision. Osborne would not stop at arresting Thomas Leighton. He would also apprehend every man who was there to greet the returned Royalist. Inevitably that would include Lord Strathern. Despite his duty to the Lord Protector, Philip could not bring himself to arrange the downfall of a good and honorable man.

  So he went to Fenwick Cove with the idea that he would follow young Leighton to his first place of sanctuary, then tell Osborne of the hiding place. Thomas could be arrested quietly, in such a way that no one would suspect Philip of informing on him. Moreover, only Thomas would be caught and charged with treason. His father and the other gentlemen who met him at the cove would no doubt be chastened by their flirtation with danger and would desist in their rebellious activities.

  This ingenious plan still left Philip feeling somewhat ashamed of himself, for treachery was not something he enjoyed. So, although he was surprised when he saw the soldiers exploding from the trees, he was also relieved. The decision whether or not to turn in Thomas Leighton had been taken out of his hands.

  The arrival of the soldiers raised an interesting point, though. It meant that Osborne had another spy in West Easton, and since Philip was the only stranger in the area, Osborne’s spy must be one of the local people.

  He thought of that now, as his butler, dressed in a rather hasty fashion, breathlessly told him that an officer was waiting to see him downstairs. Philip nodded, ran his fingers through his long, tousled dark hair, rubbed his stubbly chin and generally acted like a man who had just been wakened from a deep sleep. Grumpily, he demanded his nightgown, a long, loose garment made of an exotic damask silk, which he wrapped around his muscular form.

  “Where did you put the fellow?” he growled, knotting the sash. The rich crimson of the shimmering cloth brought out shiny highlights in his black hair.

  “I left him in the Great Hall, Sir Philip. Young Lealand is watching him.”

  Ashton, the butler, eyed Philip in a nervous, wary way as he spoke. Philip noted this grimly. Someone in West Easton had betrayed Thomas Leighton, but it had not been him. Nevertheless, even his own people were questioning whether or not he was the one who had laid the information. Anger sizzled in him. He had never liked being blamed for crimes he had not committed.

  As he descended the great staircase, he heard a loud, bullying voice saying, “You know more than you are telling, lad, and don’t think that you can get away with hiding it from me! We’ll find that scurvy devil or we’ll arrest half this county for harboring a traitor!”

  Philip paused. The voice was unknown to him, and from what he could see, so was the officer who was ruthlessly interrogating his servant. The man was wearing the red coat of Cromwell’s Ironsides. Regi
mental facings of a bright green told Philip that he was part of a unit stationed here in southern England. Philip knew the name of the colonel of the regiment, but none of the man’s officers. Somewhat reassured, for he had been half afraid that his impersonation would be exposed this morning, he considered how best to handle the coming interview.

  Should he act like an innocent man unjustly accused? Royalists tended to be a prickly lot, especially when confronted with their own wrongdoing. They usually began by denying any responsibility and often continued so until the bitter end. There were those in the hierarchy of the Protectorate who delighted in breaking such men. Philip had never been one of them, but he had the uneasy feeling that the officer below could be classed among their number. If that was so, it would be better to present a mild front and pass off any malice the fellow might exhibit with a smile and a shrug.

  Better, but not possible. Philip despised men who used their rank and power to intimidate others. Moreover, he had been an officer too long to suppress his training. A fractious subordinate was one who must be put securely in his place.

  Shrugging, he continued down the stairs. He would see how the interview went and he would follow his instincts.

  Hearing footsteps on the stairs, Lealand looked over with undeniable relief. “Sir Philip,” he said, stammering a little in his haste to say what he had to and be gone. “This is Lieutenant Weston. He is here to ask some questions about the doings last night.”

  “What doings?” Philip growled, running his fingers through his thick hair, supposedly to straighten it, but really to increase the look of ruffled dishabille.

  “A convicted rebel returned to England last night,” Weston announced, puffing out his chest and deepening his voice. He abandoned Lealand, who promptly scuttled away to a safer haven in the servants’ quarters. “We’re searching the area to locate him.”

  “He’s not here,” Philip said grumpily. He glared at the lieutenant, sizing him up with the speed of long experience. The man had the fervent glitter of a fanatic in his eyes, but he also had the sharp, uneasy manner of an inexperienced man given a task that was beyond his skills.

  “Don’t lie to me!” Weston said menacingly.

  Philip suppressed a mischievous little wish that he had the lieutenant under his command so that he could teach the man some manners. However, since that was not possible, he ignored the man’s rudeness. “Is that why you woke me up? To see if Ainslie was harboring a returned Royalist?”

  Weston, who had all the subtlety of a dull nail, sneered. “Lying abed late because you were out at all hours meeting a smuggling boat? If the Royalist isn’t here, then I’ll wager you know where he is!”

  Philip replied with an enviable, icy calm. He’d long ago trained himself not to lose his detachment once involved in an engagement. Too many mistakes were made by men who allowed the passions of the hour to overset their good judgment. “Then you would lose that bet. I do not know where your Royalist is, nor do I care. If that is all, Lieutenant, you may leave.”

  “Not so fast,” Weston said roughly. “I’m not finished.”

  Philip raised black brows. “Then continue, but pray do so quickly. Now that I am awake I would like to break my fast and enjoy a mug of ale.”

  The lieutenant colored at the haughty tone in Philip’s voice. “I’ll proceed at my own speed!”

  “Sir,” Philip said softly. Dangerously.

  Weston blinked. “What was that?”

  “When you speak to me do so respectfully. ‘I’ll proceed at my own speed, sir.’”

  “Respect must be earned,” Weston sneered.

  “And information is freely given,” Philip shot back. “Use your head, Lieutenant. No one in West Easton is going to welcome you with open arms, especially if you do your best to alienate every potential ally you might have.”

  Contempt skittered across the officer’s face. “You consider yourself a potential ally? I think not! We know West Easton is a hotbed of Royalists. Last night we almost caught the ringleaders in the act of welcoming an exiled traitor back to England. They managed to escape by the merest hairbreadth of chance. Rest assured, Hampton, we will not make the same mistake again! We know the Black Boy’s henchman is in this area. We know it and we will find him. Even if we have to tear down every building for miles around!”

  Weston’s eyes were glittering with fervor and his face had begun to turn a bright pink. Philip had no doubt the officer must be kept from abusing the power he’d been given, or the people of West Easton would have another reason to hate the Protectorate. He drew a deep breath. “Get out of my house, Lieutenant. Now!”

  “You haven’t finished answering my questions.”

  Violence was a language a man like Weston understood. He would scorn an opponent who returned a soft answer, but he would fear, and so respect, one who unexpectedly used him as ruthlessly as he liked to use others.

  In two quick strides Philip was beside the officer. He took Weston by the arm in an iron hold and marched him swiftly to the door. Throwing it open he pushed the man onto the porch. “Hear me, Lieutenant Weston. Do not return to Ainslie Manor again. Do not harass my tenants. Do not seek to question my servants. Above all, do not attempt to speak to me again. Am I understood?”

  Weston had almost fallen from the momentum of Philip’s push and he was flushed with temper as he righted himself and straightened his tunic. His men, who had waited for him in the forecourt while he went to interrogate Philip, observed the altercation silently. Very much aware of the watching eyes, Weston put on a bold face. “And if I choose not to obey you?” he sneered. “What do you think you can do to me? I can burn your tenants’ houses and rape their women for sport and you can do nothing to me!”

  Philip moved until he was only inches away from the man. Fury at this petty creature was mixed with a real fear that Weston would do exactly what he said if he wasn’t stopped. Deliberately allowing the force of his feelings to show in his blazing eyes, Philip spoke in a voice icy with promise. “You think you are invincible? I promise you, you are not! Should I hear that you have acted in any way beyond what is right and proper, I’ll tie you to an oxcart myself and whip you until you beg for mercy. Then I’ll cut off your ears and feed them to the pigs! I can do it and I will do it. Do you understand me, Lieutenant?”

  He read the fear in the man’s eyes and was satisfied. “Good. Now go. And do not think that I will remain silent regarding this. I shall be telling the other landowners in the area and we will all stand against you should you harm anyone—anyone!—in your attempts to discover this Royalist’s whereabouts.”

  A small group of servants had gathered in the doorway. The butler stepped forward when Philip finished. He was holding a mug of ale, which he offered to Philip. Somewhat surprised, Philip took it and sipped while he watched through narrowed eyes as the lieutenant hurried down the stairs to his waiting men, roughly ordering them to mount up as he went. As they rode off down the drive Philip drank the ale and thought about the visit.

  His butler’s voice brought him back from his reverie. “That was perhaps not wise, Sir Philip.”

  Philip glanced at Ashton. The wariness that he’d seen in the butler’s eyes earlier was gone. Now the expression there was one of respect and concern. “How so?”

  “You have been away from England for a long time, sir. The government is empowered to apprehend those it deems suspicious, whether there is reason for the arrest or not. The lieutenant might just decide to give your name to the Committee of Safety for no other reason than you annoyed him.”

  A chill ran through Philip. He thrust the now empty mug into the butler’s hands. “No one is going to arrest me,” he said grimly, as he stomped into the house, “or any other householder in this area if we are willing to stand together against them.”

  He headed for the stairs. Behind him the butler muttered uneasily, “I hope you are right, Sir Philip. England is not the land you once knew.”

  *

  Later
that morning Philip Hampton visited Strathern Hall. He was shown into the shabby morning room, where Lord Strathern sat with his wife and eldest daughter. “Sir Philip, this is an unexpected surprise.”

  Just inside the room, Philip stopped. His brows rose fractionally as his eyes scanned the small, cluttered chamber. It was nothing at all like the elegant King’s Salon.

  After that short pause to get his bearings, Philip strode into the room with the decisive walk of someone used to command. After bowing to the ladies, he addressed Lord Strathern. “I had a thoroughly unpleasant visit from a troop of Cromwell’s Ironsides earlier this morning, Strathern. I am particularly concerned about an odious lieutenant by the name of Weston who believes his position gives him the right to allow his baser instincts free rein.”

  Cautiously, Strathern nodded. “We were also visited by troops this morning.” Watching Philip closely, he added, “I must confess, I did not expect you to come to me with this particular complaint.”

  Philip frowned. He was dressed in a comfortable riding outfit. The brown cloth suit was not as opulent as some of his other clothes, but looked just as new. “Why not?”

  Lord Strathern shrugged noncommittally. Unlike Philip’s, his green doublet and black breeches were of the finest silk and decorated with a vast number of ribbon loops. His hair had been carefully curled and two lovelocks fell past his shoulders. It was as if he had dressed to annoy any Roundhead interloper who might have the temerity to invade his privacy.

  Philip colored at Strathern’s unspoken slur. “Because of my brother, the Roundhead?”

  “You are new to the area, Sir Philip. The troops would have no reason to believe that you are involved in Royalist plots,” Abigail said pacifically. Like her husband she was very carefully dressed. Her gown was of blue silk over a pale blue quilted petticoat and a fine lawn gorget circled her neck and fell to the top of the gown, adequately covering the skin exposed by the low-cut bodice. Despite her impressive garments, strain shadowed her eyes.