by Louise Clark
Ingram Abbey. Philip hadn’t heard of the near capture before now, but he thought the news more interesting than Alysa could possibly know. She was watching him with those huge frightened eyes, waiting for him to say something that would make her concerns fade away. He desperately wanted to reassure her, but he couldn’t find the words.
Instead he said slowly, “Ingram Abbey. Why was Thomas there?”
She waved her hand impatiently. “Papa wanted to discuss the general meeting with him and he thought Strathern would be too dangerous for Thomas to come to, so Cedric Ingram suggested they use the abbey.” She added in a small voice, “Philip, it is as if someone knew and deliberately told the military that Thomas would be there.”
Someone indeed. A heaviness settled over Philip. Osborne had every right to feel cocky about the spy he had recruited, for the man had access to the most intimate details of the Royalist plans. The spy was Cedric Ingram.
Philip now faced the dilemma of how to alert Alysa that her suitor was a traitor without telling her that he, Philip, was not what he pretended to be. Thomas Leighton’s words echoed eerily in his brain. And when my sister discovers your true identity? How will you explain to her that you have lied to her all this time? He would have to tell her why he had come to West Easton and how meeting her had changed his life.
But not today. Not while she was so distraught. Taking her hand, he said reassuringly, “Thomas was not caught then, and I am certain that wherever he is hiding, he has made sure that it was well away from Ingram Abbey. Remember that he is safe, Alysa, and rejoice in that.”
The hand resting in his trembled a little, but she smiled bravely. “Thank you, Philip. Yes, he is safe for now and he will soon be gone.”
Philip didn’t want to speak the words, for he knew they would lead to a decision for him, a decision he did not want to make. He said slowly, reluctantly, “Then a time has been set for the meeting of Royalists?”
Alysa smiled up at him, her eyes trusting. “Yes, but only Papa and a few others know the details. Even I have not been apprised of it.” She paused then added fiercely, “And I am glad of it! I would hate to think that some idle conversation of mine might put my brother in jeopardy. This way I need not fear that I will harm him.”
Relief flooded through Philip as he realized he would not have to make the ultimate choice yet. “A wise decision on Lord Strathern’s part,” he said gravely. Smiling, he touched Alysa’s cheek. It was a reassurance and a caress at the same time. “Take heart, my lovely lady! For the moment your brother is safe hidden and soon his duty here will be fulfilled and he will be able to get safely away.”
“Yes,” Alysa said, smiling up into his eyes. “Now that I have talked with you I can see that my fears were groundless. Thank you, Philip. You have given me much comfort today.”
These were heady words to a man who wanted nothing more than to please the lady who spoke them. Philip was almost light-headed with pleasure. He grinned down at Alysa, feeling younger than he had in years. “My pleasure, lovely lady.” He extended the package he had been carrying under his arm. With a slightly wry smile, he said, “Though I am sure that you care more for your brother’s fate at this moment than personal adornments, I would be most pleased if you would consent to accept this small token of my feelings for you.”
Slowly, Alysa took the package. It was wrapped in plain cloth and tied with string and the very ordinariness of it made it look terribly innocent. But it was not. Instead it was a symbol, a promise of a union that couldn’t yet be spoken of. Philip watched, breathless, as she turned the package in her hands. Then she pulled the string to untie the bow that held it closed.
Philip’s heart leapt. She was committed now, just as he was committed. Though nothing had been said, Alysa had just acknowledged that her feelings toward him were strong and true.
Soon, he thought, exultant. Soon he would speak to Lord Strathern and ask for her hand.
Unbidden, Thomas’s words echoed in his head once more. And when my sister discovers your true identity? How will you explain to her that you have lied to her all this time?
Her voice, expressing pleasure over the gift, chased away the taunting sound of Thomas’s voice. Once again Philip promised himself that he would tell her. Soon.
But not today.
Chapter 12
The church in West Easton was an ancient building. Construction had begun during Norman rule, but successive generations added decorations and made repairs in the style of their times. The most recent change had been made during the war. Then the exquisite stained-glass windows, which had adorned the building since the rule of King Henry V, were knocked out by Puritan sympathizers for being idolatrous. Now plain glass was fitted in the casements, but for many years the windows had been boarded up, mute testimony to freedom lost and idealism taken to extremes.
The interior of the church had also been altered. Raw scars, where Gothic carvings had been chipped away from the stone, bore mute testimony to the destructive forces unleashed by fanaticism and war. The beautiful wooden pulpit, set high above the congregation, had been torn down and replaced with a less ostentatious podium. It was there that the Reverend Randolph Graystone, Vicar of West Easton, stood on Sunday morning after the service was over and addressed his parishioners.
“I have asked you all to linger a few minutes today in order—” There was a commotion at the back of the church. The vicar peered down the long, dim aisle toward the door, trying to make out what was going on. The members of the congregation turned in their seats, craning their necks. A low whisper, almost a growl of anger, erupted as a half-a-dozen armed men marched into the building.
“Yes, do come in. Everyone is welcome,” the vicar said, making the best of something that was happening with or without his approval.
At the head of the troops was Lieutenant Weston. He swaggered down the aisle, the sword at his side slapping ominously against his leg as he walked. One hand rested on the hilt and his eyes flitted from face-to-face, looking for something—or someone.
The vicar did not move from his austere pulpit. He placed his hands on the encircling balustrade and watched calmly as the lieutenant strutted toward him. When Weston halted at the altar rail the vicar said placidly, “I fear that your timing is unfortunate, sir, as you have completely missed our morning service.”
“My men and I are not here to worship,” Weston said curtly.
“I see.” The vicar bowed his head innocently. “Then you are here to offer your help in rebuilding the smith’s forge and barn. How very kind of you.”
The church was suddenly so quiet it seemed as if the whole congregation had paused to draw breath. The lieutenant’s gaze bored into the Reverend Graystone’s mild eyes. “Is that what this assembly is about?”
“This gathering is a service to worship God,” the vicar reprimanded gently. “The people of West Easton have stayed behind to do His work and help succor one of His own who has been beset by misfortune. What else would it be?”
Weston deliberately turned his back on the vicar. His eyes slowly scanned the congregation before he spoke. “Information has been laid that this is a meeting to plot rebellion against the Lord Protector!”
Lord Strathern jumped to his feet. “Really, sir, you are absurd!”
Eyes narrowed, Weston retorted, “Am I? I think not.”
Strathern’s comment and the lieutenant’s brusque reply broke the spell that held the congregation silent. Angry voices protested the intrusion and the insulting tone of the military man. Heads nodded and men got red in the face.
Weston listened to all of this with an expression of annoyance on his face. He allowed the protests to continue for a few minutes; then he pulled his sword from its scabbard and raised it high. Evidently this was a sign to his men, who had been standing at the rear of the church. They moved into position along the aisle, their swords drawn and raised.
“For shame!” the vicar bellowed, mild no more. “That weapons should be d
rawn in God’s house! Tell your soldiers to sheath their swords, Lieutenant. Then leave this building. You are not welcome here in the guise of violent men.”
“I will go when I am satisfied that nothing improper is being done.” The lieutenant did sheath his own sword, however, before he sauntered back down the aisle to the pew that housed the Leighton family. He looked at each person there, from the stiff and haughty Edward, still standing defiantly, to Abigail who sat straight and firm beside him. Slowly, in a deliberate attempt to intimidate, Weston’s gaze scanned Alysa with the dangerous thoroughness of a masculine predator. Alysa’s eyes sparkled with anger and she met his gaze boldly, her head high. The lieutenant began to redden and looked over at Prudence, repeating his silent harassment. Less composed than her sister, his gaze made Prudence look away, fear lurking in the depths of her eyes.
A nasty smile of satisfaction curled Weston’s lips, until he happened to catch the hard promise of retribution in the expression on Lord Strathern’s face. Weston’s hand tightened on the sword hilt and a muscle jumped in his cheek as his eyes dueled with Strathern’s, trying to force the older man’s gaze down. But it was Lieutenant Weston whose gaze faltered. He turned away with an angry flounce.
“I have information that this church is being used for more than religious services. I intend to stay until I have found proof of that.”
“Of course it is, Lieutenant,” the vicar said patiently. “As I told you, the people of West Easton are staying behind today to discuss what is to be done about the tragic loss suffered by Master Wishingham, our village smith.”
Barnabus surged to his feet. “And right kind it is of all of you. My good wife and I cannot imagine how to thank you for your thoughtfulness.”
The vicar beamed and nodded in the direction of the smith. “Now then, Lieutenant, may we get on with our meeting? Although it is Sunday and our day of rest, I know these good people cannot linger overlong and we have much to discuss before we are finished.”
The lieutenant sneered. “Go ahead, get on with your meeting. But my men and I will not leave. If this is simply a ruse to try to confuse us, it will not work! But do go ahead and try.”
“Most kind,” the Reverend Mr. Graystone said, inclining his head. “Very well, you all know why we are here. A week last Saturday Master Wishingham’s forge and barn burned down. Apart from the hardship this will cause the town, now that we no longer have a proper smithy, I believe it is our Christian duty to try to set to right what some evil man has done. We will rebuild. If we work as a team I know we will be able to quickly reconstruct the buildings. Now, who is willing to help?”
There was a sudden outpouring of voices and one after another the men stood up and promised to do their part.
The vicar beamed. “Wonderful! Now, who is to do what?”
More voices were raised in promise. The result was general confusion.
“Dear me.” The vicar appeared to be quite perturbed. “I think we need a committee. Lord Strathern, will you volunteer to head a planning committee?”
Strathern, who had seated himself once the meeting began, stood and bowed. “Certainly.” He glanced around the church, then pointed to several men as he said their names. All agreed to help. “Now then,” Strathern continued, “it seems to me that we need to discuss what is to be done. Should we simply recreate the buildings as they were, or would Master Wishingham like to see some improvements?”
“Well,” the smith said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “the forge could be enlarged a trifle, if that is not too difficult. The old foundations escaped the fire and I assumed that I would simply rebuild atop them, but I admit that more space would be a treat.”
“Why Master Blake, the stonemason, is amongst our number today,” the Reverend Mr. Graystone said, sounding as pleased as a child with a new toy. “Why don’t we ask him what he thinks?”
The stonemason was a ponderous man with a slow, thoughtful way of speaking. He rose to his feet with a heavy grace, then considered his reply a time before beginning. “From what I remember of the construction of the forge, the foundations could be lengthened a few feet without difficulty. But is that how you’d like the building enlarged, Barnabus? Would it not be better for you to widen it as well?”
Wishingham allowed as how that would be nice.
Blake, the stonemason, nodded. “Aye, I thought as much. Now that might be a more difficult task.” He looked down at his large hands. “Problem is, I’m not that familiar with wood construction. Now, if you was to consider rebuilding the forge in stone—” His voice warmed to his topic and his sentences picked up speed, his tongue tripping over itself as he spoke. “A forge should be constructed of stone, I think, what with the fire burning all the time and the sparks that are thrown with the working of the metal. Seems to me that a fire there was inevitable. I vote we rebuild the smith’s forge in stone. What does everyone else say?”
“I’m for it!” Wishingham announced, not surprisingly.
Peter Graham, a prosperous merchant who owned the town gristmill and sawmill, protested. “An excellent suggestion, Master Blake. But where do you expect to find the materials for such an enterprise? Stone is expensive, unlike wood. Since there are no quarries in this area it must be cut and hauled from miles away.”
“Your timber must be felled, cut and aged,” someone said.
Graham nodded. “Aye, it must, but I promise to donate a portion of the materials. Would a quarryman not of this area be willing to do the same?”
And so it went on for the next hour, suggestions made, rebutted, agreed with. Everyone had an opinion and none was shy about speaking up. Men like Lord Strathern, who were in on the real reason for the meeting, could almost forget that they were not here to discuss the smith’s sad loss, but to consider the possibility of a restoration of the monarchy.
The hour lengthened into the next and still the good people of West Easton found reasons to continue the debate about how to rebuild the smith’s lost forge. When it should be done was argued over, as was who should direct the construction. Eventually the discussion came round to what refreshments should be provided when the work actually commenced.
It was during the exhaustive discussion on what each lady would consent to bring on the days chosen for the rebuilding that Lieutenant Weston lost patience. “You people are impossible!” he announced, his face flushed.
The vicar looked at him innocently. “Why, my dear man, whatever do you mean?”
“You argue about the merest trifles! What does it matter if two women bake the same kind of biscuits? Food is food!”
“I can see you are a man of limited taste,” said Mistress Thompson, who happened to be the sister-in-law of the smith’s wife’s cousin. She was also the individual who had protested that they could not allow each and every woman to bring whatever foodstuffs she chose, or there would not be a healthy balance for the men laboring to rebuild the forge. She drew herself to her full height, a mere five foot two of imposing feminine outrage. “You clearly do not have an understanding of what is needed to keep men working willingly and well. And you call yourself an officer! You should be ashamed of yourself! Soldiers, like any other men, will work harder and go greater distances if they have a belly full of good, nutritious food. You claim to be a leader of men, yet you don’t know this! I say again, shame!”
“Now see here—” the lieutenant began belligerently.
Philip broke in, before Weston could finish. “Lieutenant, the lady is entitled to her opinion, as are all the good people here. There is no wrongdoing occurring, only a desire to help one of our own. Why don’t you take your men and leave? There is no need for you to remain.” He looked at Mistress Thompson and smiled slightly. “Indeed, I think we may be on this topic for quite some time.”
Weston chewed his lip indecisively. Mistress Thompson sniffed triumphantly and continued her pronouncements as if Weston did not exist. Abruptly, the lieutenant motioned for his weary men to lower their swords and leave the
church. Without so much as a word of apology, he followed them from the building.
After the troops were gone there was a long silence in the church. One member of the congregation tiptoed to the rear and peered stealthily out the door. He returned a few moments later to report, “They’re gone. The lieutenant mounted his men up, every last one of them, and rode off.”
There was a collective sigh of relief; then Lord Strathern said, “Good. With your indulgence, Vicar, I propose we get on with the real business of this meeting so that we can conclude it as quickly as possible.”
Nodding, the vicar relinquished his place to Strathern.
“Very well. You were all told the purpose of this meeting when you entered the church this morning, so I will waste no further time with long introductions. You all know my son,” Lord Strathern indicated Thomas, who was sitting beside Barnabus Wishingham and his wife. “He is here on behalf of the king, to discover if now is a suitable time for His Majesty to attempt a return to England. What say you on this subject?”
“Now is not the time,” a voice said. “You’ve all seen what just happened. We’ve been harried by those troops since young Leighton arrived in England. How much worse would it be if the king were to land? The Protector is still too strong. We could not win.”
“Few are loyal to the Protector anymore!” Cedric Ingram shouted. “I say the king returns! His supporters will flock to his standard the moment he lands on English soil.”
“A fine sentiment,” the smith said warmly. “And a month ago I would have agreed wholeheartedly with it, but today—” He shook his head. “We’ve become used to living under the harsh rules that govern our land now. It takes something out of the ordinary to show us just how hard those rules can be. The Lord Protector will not give up his power easily. As loyal as a man might be to the king, he must still look to protecting his own. The late wars taught us that. I say that the king should remain in Europe. Now is not yet the time for him to return.”