by Stella Riley
On the following morning, the army finally filed into the city behind their King. The populace was out in force, cheering wildly. And though Charles’s buff-coat and scarlet silk sash were no longer quite as pristine as when they had left Stirling, he still presented a brave figure, sitting straight in the saddle, smiling his lazily intimate smile and allowing his hand to be grasped and kissed. He looked, remarked Francis, every inch the romantic young Prince, come to claim his kingdom. And it was to be hoped that the impression bore fruit.
Received by Mayor Lysons and Sheriff Brydges, Charles was ceremoniously conducted to the Guildhall where he was proclaimed King of Great Britain, France and Ireland and offered the keys of his ‘ancient and loyal city’ of Worcester. To complete the drama, His Majesty promptly knighted the Mayor … before asking the city officials what they could do for his poor, foot-sore soldiers.
They did what they could. They scoured the city for shoes and stockings and made public buildings available for the great number of soldiers who could not be accommodated elsewhere. By nightfall, Ashley and Francis had managed to billet their men and find stabling for the horses. It was all make-shift, of course, but it was better than another night on the road – and at least there was hot food to be had. Beyond that, it wasn’t possible to look.
Before they fell asleep, Francis said, ‘It must be about a hundred miles to London from here.’
‘About that,’ agreed Ashley.
‘And Cromwell and Lambert and the rest are presumably hot on our heels by now.’
‘I think you can rely on that.’
‘And yet we’re lingering here to rest the men.’
Ashley said nothing and there was a long silence.
‘Dear me,’ remarked Francis, with restrained foreboding. ‘It’s beginning to sound just like Colchester.’
* * *
The next day being Sunday, was partly taken up with a glowingly Royalist sermon delivered by the Reverend Crosby from the cathedral pulpit. After that, notices went out calling every man between sixteen and sixty to join His Majesty at the Pitchcroft on Tuesday; and, in the meantime, parish constables were ordered to start repairing the city’s crumbling, half-demolished walls.
‘Hell’s teeth!’ grumbled Nicholas. ‘Don’t tell me we’re staying?’
Having spent the last two hours at a Council of War, Colonel Peverell was in no mood for lengthy discussion. He said crisply, ‘We have to make a stand somewhere. And how much further do you think we’ll get?’
‘I don’t know. But here? It would take months to make this place secure.’
‘Not necessarily. Its natural defences are excellent. Or at least, they will be by the time we’ve blown up the bridges at Bewdley, Upton, Powick and Bransford. And we’re not planning on withstanding a siege.’
‘Now that,’ observed Francis, ‘is good news. But if we stay long enough for Cromwell’s cohorts to assemble about us, precisely how are we to avoid one?’
‘We face them in the field,’ replied Ashley tonelessly.
‘Ah. And beat them from our path, no doubt?’
‘Yes.’
Sardonic blue eyes met expressionless green ones.
Nicholas looked from one to the other of them and then, drawing a long breath, said with creditable lightness, ‘Oh. Well, I suppose that’s all right, then.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
FIVE
On Monday morning, engineers took parties of men out to blow up the bridges over the Severn and the Teme and work started on the city’s defences. On Tuesday, the army’s senior officers accompanied the King to the rendezvous at the Pitchcroft and found themselves barely outnumbered by the Worcestershire Royalists who attended it. And on Wednesday, leaving Francis to send out scouting parties and collate their various reports, Ashley Peverell put the cause he served before his natural repugnance and rode the twelve miles to Milcombe Park.
It was a neat, moderate-sized estate and the land looked well-tended. That, of course, was no surprise. While Ashley and their father had gone off to fight for the King, James had stayed behind watching over the family acres – less, Ashley had often thought, because he loved them than because they saved him risking his neck and represented his inheritance. But though James had wished the King well at first, the reverses following Marston Moor had changed his view. Consequently, for the last year of their father’s life, the house – on the rare occasions when they had all been in it together – had been a battle-ground.
The house. As if on cue, it came into view through the trees … a modest, stone-built manor peering over a low curtain wall and possessed, it appeared, of an elegant new wing. Ashley paused for a moment, staring at large mullioned windows topped by the family’s heraldic device of a griffin; and then, with an ironic grin, he nudged his horse into motion again.
The maid who opened the door was a stranger. Ashley melted her with a smile and managed, without giving his name, to get her to go in search of Sir James. The room she left him in was one of the new ones. Ashley looked at the collection of books growing along one wall and wondered where the money was coming from. Then the door opened and his brother walked in.
Recognition of his visitor stopped Sir James Peverell dead and temporarily deprived him of breath. For perhaps half a minute, the two men faced each other in silence; one tall and lithe, his hair bleached by the sun and his skin lightly tanned … the other, darker and slightly shorter and already putting on flesh. There were only two years between them. To a casual observer, it looked more like ten.
Finally, his voice clipped and wary, James said, ‘I suppose I should have expected this as soon as I heard that Charles Stuart is in Worcester. Doubtless you’re still indulging in pointless heroics?’
‘I’m still fighting for my King,’ agreed Ashley with gentle emphasis. ‘Each to his own, you know. And I haven’t your passion for architecture and literature.’ He glanced around at the books. ‘Read them all, have you?’
James’s mouth tightened. He was no great reader and his brother knew it. He said repressively, ‘They are an investment. And my sons will read them one day.’ He paused and then, with a hint of awkwardness, added, ‘Elizabeth and I are blessed with two healthy boys.’
Ashley’s eyes remained expressionless.
‘My congratulations. Lizzie is well, I take it?’
‘Never better.’
‘And Jenny?’
James hesitated before saying curtly, ‘She’s well enough. About to be betrothed. Young Cotterell, you know.’
Ashley didn’t know but was confident that their young sister wouldn’t marry anyone she didn’t want to. He said slowly, ‘She never replied to my letters.’
‘Her choice,’ came the bald reply. Then, quickly, ‘Why are you here? Not, I presume, merely to ask after everyone’s health?’
‘Not entirely, no.’
‘Then perhaps you could get to the point.’
Ashley smothered a sigh. It wasn’t going well – and coming to the point at this stage wasn’t likely to make it any better. On the other hand, the longer he put it off, the more chance there was that he’d be provoked into saying something unfortunate … not because he couldn’t lie and smile with the best but because he and James had an unfailing knack of getting under each other’s skin.
Shrugging slightly, he said, ‘Very well. But do you think we might sit down? Or are you overwhelmingly eager to be rid of me?’
A vestige of colour touched James’s face and he said stiffly, ‘I don’t care either way. Sit, if you wish. Would you like me to send for wine?’
‘No, no.’ Ashley dropped into a chair by the empty hearth. ‘I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble. And it would probably take more than you have in your cellar to mend our differences.’
‘If you’re still bearing a grudge against me for marrying Elizabeth --’
‘I don’t bear grudges, James.’ Ashley impaled him on a very direct stare. ‘And I haven’t come here to quarrel with you – about Lizzie
or anything else. I said what I had to say at our last meeting – as did you. But we are left with the inescapable fact that we’re poles apart. What I call a principle, you call stupidity; and where I see something worth fighting for, you see only a lost cause. You don’t care for having a brother flirting with the Council of State’s black-list – and I can’t reconcile myself to having one who’s a trimmer. In short, the only thing we have in common is a desire not to be tarred with the same brush.’
‘True.’ James sat down, crossing one leg tidily over the other. ‘I’m glad we understand each other that well at least. So what do you want?’
‘My inheritance,’ said Ashley simply. And, when his brother’s hands clenched on the carved arms of his chair, ‘It’s all right. There’s no need to have an apoplexy. I’m not asking for money. I don’t even want a hundred acres and a cow. But I feel fairly sure that Father’s will must have made provision for me … and I want to claim some form of it now. What you might call a once-and-for-all payment.’
‘So what,’ asked James slowly, ‘did you have in mind?’
‘Father’s collection of firearms.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. He had over thirty different pieces, as I recall. I also want all the pistols and muskets you reclaimed from the troop he raised for the King, along with every bag of shot and barrel of powder that we amassed in the event of Milcombe ever being besieged.’ Ashley leaned back and smiled. ‘I’m sure you still have it all. You’re not the man to dispose of things without turning a coin on the transaction. But the New Model has its own suppliers … and selling arms to the side you’d just deserted would have been a bit tricky, wouldn’t it?’
‘I was never actively Royalist,’ snapped James. ‘I never fought.’
‘I know. But that’s something best not discussed, don’t you think? And it’s beside the point, anyway. We were talking about arms and ammunition.’
‘You were. I was wondering at your colossal nerve.’
‘I’m sure you were.’ Once again, the barb was delicately placed. ‘Let’s put it this way. So long as my way of life continues to be an embarrassment to you, you would prefer me to remain both distant and discreet.’
‘Discreet? You’ve never been discreet!’
‘No? Think about it. You haven’t seen or heard from me in six years. Not, if you will excuse me from pointing it out, since I came back waving an olive branch and found you had married Lizzie.’
‘Elizabeth was free to make her choice,’ came the swift, defensive reply. ‘There was no contract between the two of you.’
‘No formal contract, perhaps.’ Ashley’s smile was hard-edged and controlled. ‘However, it hardly signifies now. As to the matter of my discretion … have the authorities ever been here asking about me?’
James hunched one shoulder. ‘No. What of it?’
‘Simply that, if I were as careless as you imply, you’d have had Thomas Scot camping on your doorstep,’ returned Ashley smoothly. And then, when his brother looked blank, ‘He runs the intelligence service – rather efficiently, too. I don’t think you’d like him as a house-guest.’
This time the point hit home and James erupted from his chair.
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Not at all. I’m merely pointing out how much worse things might be.’ Ashley also rose and held the furious grey gaze with a cool one of his own. ‘And now perhaps we can return to the business which brought me here?’
‘Blackmailing me into supplying arms to Charles Stuart’s Scotch army?’
‘Granting me the only thing I’ve ever asked of you.’
‘Don’t split hairs! If I was caught assisting the invasion --’
‘You won’t be. Just load the things I’ve asked for on to a cart, cover it with canvas and let me drive it away. You have my word that no one will ever know where it came from.’ Ashley paused and then added dryly, ‘A miniature arsenal is no use to you, James … but at this precise moment in time, it would mean a great deal to me. And in return for it, I’m prepared to disappear for good.’
‘That’s generous of you,’ mocked James. ‘Your precious army must be very badly equipped.’
‘It could certainly be better. Are you going to let me have the things I asked for … or shall we return to the subject of my letters to Jenny so you can admit that she never had them. For she didn’t, did she?’
‘I don’t know what --’
‘Yes, you do – just as I always know when you’re lying.’ Ashley waited and, when no reply was forthcoming, added blightingly, ‘Adding spite to stupidity, James? Since you presumably read the letters, you knew that there was no reason to with-hold them other than your determination to take anything that was mine – including Jenny’s affection.’
‘That’s not true! I never did so. And you can’t--’
‘I think,’ said Ashley softly, ‘you would be ill-advised to predict what I can and cannot do. I also think that, if you want to be rid of me as quickly as possible, you will give me what I asked for.’
The message was perfectly clear. James’s hands clenched at his sides and he wished he could smash one of them into his brother’s face. Ashley’s expression told him that this would be a mistake. Seething, he drew a long painful breath and said curtly, ‘Very well. Wait here while I see to it. I don’t want you --’
‘To advertise my presence unnecessarily? I think you’ve made that abundantly clear.’ Ashley dropped back into a chair. ‘In which case, I imagine I can rely on you not taking all day over it.’
James cast him a glance of acute dislike and stamped from the room, shutting the door with a distinct snap.
Ashley gazed around him at the impressive array of books, the carved panelling and the expensive furniture. His mouth curled wryly. Whatever income his father had left him was plainly going to come in very useful if James intended to continue spending at this rate. Then the door opened again, just a little way, and a pair of wide blue eyes examined him around it. Ashley’s stomach tightened and he stood up.
Elizabeth slid around the door and stood, leaning against it. She said breathlessly, ‘Ashley. I thought … from what the maid said, I guessed … but I had to be sure.’
‘That the black-sheep had returned?’ He managed something that was almost a smile. ‘And now that you know, you may scurry away again.’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘Oh – I don’t know. Perhaps because we have nothing to say to one another? After all, you successfully avoiding speaking to me at all on the occasion of my last ill-timed visit … so there can be nothing worth adding now.’ He folded his arms and conducted a leisurely – and somehow faintly insulting – appraisal. The honey-brown hair was the same, as were the long-lashed eyes. But the girlish angles had been replaced with lush, womanly curves and her expression held a hint of restlessness. He said, ‘That is a very … decorative … gown, Lizzie. Were you going somewhere?’
‘No.’ She’d changed into it specially but didn’t want him to know that. Nervously fingering the profusion of trimming on her bodice, she said abruptly, ‘Don’t call me Lizzie. No one does that now.’
‘As you wish, my lady.’ He made an extravagant bow. ‘So – aside from satisfying your ladyship’s curiosity – did your ladyship want anything else?’
‘Don’t! I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t.’
‘I’m not sure I know you at all … or indeed that I ever did.’
He continued to contemplate her, unable to define his feelings. He hadn’t expected to see her or to care whether or not he did. It had been six years, after all and the twenty-four year-old he’d been then was now a different person. The hurt he’d felt at the time had long since faded into shadow. And yet, looking at her now, he remembered how much he’d believed he loved her; remembered how sure he’d been that she felt the same; and remembered how, returning to find her married to his brother without either warning or a word of explanation, had left him feeling as t
hough something had been ripped from his chest. It was a recollection. No more than that … but he didn’t want it. He said, ‘What do you want with me, Elizabeth?’
‘I don’t know. I just …’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘I suppose I thought I should … perhaps I should explain.’
‘It’s a little late for that, don’t you think? And unnecessary. You chose James because, having inherited the title and the land, he was a better prospect than myself. We won’t go into why he asked you. And clearly,’ he gestured vaguely to the room, ‘you are happy with your choice.’
Suddenly wanting to deny what he’d said but unable, under his cool, implacable gaze, to find the words, she blurted, ‘Are you married?’
‘No.’ A pause. And then, on a note of mocking amusement, ‘Oh dear. You’re not thinking I’ve remained unwed on your account?’
‘No. My goodness – of course not!’
One raised brow suggested that he didn’t entirely believe her but he said merely, ‘What, then?’
Elizabeth found herself at a loss again. What she thought was that he still looked exactly the same. A little harder, perhaps – his muscles more clearly defined; but still as tall and lithe and wildly attractive as he’d always been. Long tawny hair lay in careless waves on broad shoulders; dark green eyes, flecked with gold were set between ridiculously long lashes; and the chiselled planes and angles of his face were nothing short of breath-taking. She forced herself to swallow. He was sinfully beautiful and possessed of an indefinable air of danger that was as alluring as it was exciting. And she had thrown him away in favour of money and status … and James. James who came to her bed twice every week on exactly the same days and made love to her in exactly the same tediously unimaginative way that frequently made her want to scream. She suspected that if Ashley made a woman scream, it would be for other reasons entirely.
The idea made heat rise to her cheeks and she said quickly, ‘I suppose you’re in Worcester with Charles Stuart?’