by Stella Riley
‘I’m in Worcester with His Majesty King Charles the Second,’ he corrected coolly, ‘and it’s time I completed my business with James and returned there.’ He made an unsmiling but perfectly correct bow and said, ‘It’s been fun, my dear. We must do it again some time. But for now, you needn’t bother to show me out. I know the way.’
Five minutes later, Ashley strode out into the courtyard, his face utterly bleak. He found his brother behind the stables, fastening down a loaded cart; and, without troubling to mention Elizabeth, he said, ‘Are you done here?’
‘Yes.’ James arose from his task and looked back with open dislike. ‘You’ll find everything you asked for. But if anyone learns where it came from, I’ll do my best to see you hanged.’
‘You wouldn’t be the first one to try.’ Ashley tethered his horse to the back of the cart. ‘Since it would be a waste of breath, I won’t ask you to give Jenny my love – or to suggest you try to be less of a horse’s arse in future.’
‘Just get the hell away from here,’ snapped James through clenched teeth. ‘I’d prefer never to lay eyes on you again.’
‘My God. A point of agreement at last.’ Swinging himself up on to the driving seat, Ashley glanced down and said, ‘Goodbye, brother. I won’t say it’s been a pleasure. But at least the time hasn’t been entirely wasted.’ And, setting the horse in motion, he drove through the gate and away out of sight.
* * *
Having spent the remainder of the day lurking in a copse near Milcombe, Ashley brought his booty into Worcester under cover of darkness and disposed of it in the appropriate quarter where it was gratefully received. Then he made his way back to his billet.
Francis was there, poring over a map but he looked up as the door opened and said, ‘Ah. So there you are. I hope you’ve had an enjoyable day?’
‘Not especially.’ Ashley dropped into a settle by the fire. ‘You?’
‘Likewise.’ Francis straightened and surveyed him unsmilingly. ‘Cromwell has combined with Lambert, Harrison, Fleetwood and Desborough. He is now at Evesham with roughly thirty thousand men and more coming in every minute. He is also, according to the latest reports, showing signs of splitting his forces.’
Ashley shut his eyes. ‘Between where?’
‘The London road and the area to our west around Upton.’ There was a long pause. Then, ‘May I ask where the hell you’ve been all day?’
‘Collecting supplies. Has my absence been a problem?’
‘No – but it could have been.’ For once, Francis’s voice was stripped of its habitual languor. ‘To put it bluntly, I’ve a particular aversion to vanishing commanders – for which you may thank Lord Norwich. Consequently, I would appreciate it if you could either leave the secret missions to others or at least have the decency to keep me informed of your whereabouts.’
Intense irritation informed Colonel Peverell’s gaze but he said merely, ‘I’ll bear it in mind. Have you reported your findings to His Majesty?’
‘Naturally. I left him conferring with Hamilton, Middleton and Leslie at the Commandery.’
Ashley nodded, relieved that he wouldn’t have to take care of the matter himself. It had been a long day and his mind was still awash with thoughts he didn’t want. He hoped a night’s sleep would clear them away. He said, ‘Have the bridges been blown?’
‘Yes.’ Francis experienced a rare flash of intuition and his brief gust of temper evaporated. Turning away in search of the ale-jug, he said, ‘I gather something is on your mind.’
‘Nothing of any consequence,’ shrugged Ashley. And, with a grin, ‘You’d better take care, you know. We may be living in one another’s pockets – but we’re not married.’
‘God forbid.’ Francis passed him a cup of ale. ‘I prefer redheads.’
‘I know. My meagre description of Mademoiselle de Galzain --’
‘Meagre? I seem to recall you dwelling on her charms in some detail.’
‘—had you salivating,’ finished Ashley, undisturbed.
‘Had us both salivating,’ corrected Francis. And, with a smile, ‘I take it we’re changing the subject?’
‘I was under the impression that you’d already done so.’
Francis raised faintly quizzical brows. Before he could speak, however, the door opened and Nicholas came in.
Ashley murmured, ‘Another wanderer returns … hopefully having ordered us some supper.’
‘Supper?’ echoed Nicholas absently. ‘Oh – no. Sorry. I didn’t think of it.’
The Major and the Colonel exchanged glances. Despite being built like a whippet, Nick’s appetite was legendary.
Francis drawled, ‘Dear me. You must be ailing.’
‘No. I never felt better in my life.’
‘In that case,’ stated Ashley, ‘it must be a girl.’
Nicholas flushed and said crossly, ‘Well, as it happens, I did meet a girl. But it’s not at all what you think.’
‘That’s a very rash assumption,’ observed Francis. ‘How do you know what we’re thinking?’
‘Because it never varies. The only things you two care about are whether or not a girl is pretty and available. Mostly the latter.’
‘He’s got us there,’ said Ashley to Francis. And to Nicholas, ‘So I take it the young lady wouldn’t meet the banal but high standards so beloved of Francis and myself?’
‘Probably not. But that’s beside the point. Her looks have nothing to do with it.’
Francis yawned. ‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me.’
‘Naturally.’
His voice laced with laughter, Ashley said, ‘You mustn’t be too hard on us, you know. We’re just common soldiers with the usual low tastes. Well, I am, anyway,’ he added as Francis sat up again. ‘So tell us, Nick. If the lady’s looks have nothing to do with your interest in her … what has?’
‘Well, she – she seemed unhappy,’ responded Nicholas reluctantly. ‘Frightened to go home and frightened not to. And she was such a little slip of a thing – no more than seventeen, I’ll swear.’ He paused and, with a shrug, added, ‘I don’t know why … but I got the impression that someone bullies her.’
There was a long silence. Then, ‘I might have known,’ breathed Ashley. ‘I might have known. You feel sorry for her. With you, what else could it possibly be?’
~ * * ~ * * ~
SIX
Not far away in a half-timbered house on Friar Street, Magistrate Joshua Vincent’s seventeen-year-old step-daughter pushed her food about her plate and let the family’s talk flow by her. It was odd, she thought, how you could exchange a couple of sentences with a stranger over a packet of spilled embroidery silks and come away feeling that something magical had happened. It wouldn’t last, of course. She didn’t know the young man’s name and was unlikely ever to see him again, since he was clearly what her step-father would call ‘one of Charles Stuart’s God-cursed Malignants’. So it really wasn’t sensible to go on thinking of someone who would probably be hard-pressed to recognise her again.
‘Is there summat wrong with the stew, Verity?’
Joshua’s rough voice cut across her thoughts.
‘N-no, Father. Nothing.’
‘Then get on and eat it, girl. There’s a good many as’d be glad of what’s on your plate.’
‘Yes, Father.’ Verity bent her glossy dark head over the fricassee and hoped Joshua wouldn’t embark on his favourite theme.
Typically, her step-sister made sure that he did so.
‘Perhaps Verity isn’t very partial to rabbit,’ suggested Barbara sweetly, her bright blue gaze travelling to her step-mother. ‘No doubt you’re both used to better things.’
Six months of marriage to Joshua had still not taught gentle, genteel Sarah Vincent how to deal with the sudden attacks of her step-daughter. She said quickly, ‘No. No, indeed. We lived very simply. Particularly after – after my husband died.’
She swallowed, wishing she hadn’t mentioned Gerald. It upset her and Joshua didn
’t like it. The problem was that Gerald Marriott, though poor as the proverbial church mouse, had been a gentleman – whereas rich, self-made Joshua still displayed the speech and manners of the Birmingham ironworks that had been the basis of his fortune.
He had nothing to do with iron now, of course. Now he was making money in ways of which Sarah preferred to remain ignorant. A roof over the heads of Verity and herself, plus food on the table was what mattered.
‘You say you lived simply?’ He scowled her from beneath bushy brows. ‘Hand-to-mouth is what I’d call it. You’ve never been as well provided-for as you are now. And I’ve taken your daughter in and treated her as my own.’
‘Yes, Joshua. You’re very good to us.’
‘I’m glad you realise it.’ Mollified, Joshua reached for the parsnips and glanced at his daughter. ‘Where’s Nat tonight?’
Barbara shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Did you want him particularly?’
‘Yes. I’ve a job needs doing tomorrow – and I’ve business down at the court house.’ He looked back at his wife. ‘And that reminds me. It’s time a few of your fine friends started inviting us to dine so as Barbara can meet some proper gentlemen. God knows, I’ve told you over and over again to put on your best gown and go visiting. But do you? Oh no. You just sit here as if you was still in mourning.’
Barbara leaned back in her chair and drawled, ‘Perhaps Sarah is ashamed of us.’
‘Ashamed?’ bellowed Joshua. ‘By God, you’d better not be!’
‘I’m not,’ Sarah protested. ‘Of course I’m not.’
‘Then you’d best prove it, hadn’t you? As soon as the district’s free of Scotch rabble – which won’t be far off if what I’ve heard today is true – you can take Barbara and drive out to Milcombe Park and some of the other big houses hereabouts. Pay a few calls and come back with some invitations.’
Sarah nodded, struggling to hide her dismay. Out of the ranks of her former acquaintances, she could count on one hand those who might consider visiting her in Friar Street and could think of no one at all who might invite Joshua to dine.
Gathering up her courage, Verity attempted to change the subject.
‘Why do you think the Royalist army will soon be gone, sir?’
‘Because Cromwell’s at Evesham,’ grunted Joshua. And, reflectively picking his teeth, ‘If the Scots stay, they’ll be caught like rats in a trap – so they’ll leave. And good riddance, to ’em. Because if the General’s going to thrash ’em, I’d sooner he didn’t do it here.’
Something shifted behind Verity’s bodice and she wished she hadn’t eaten the rabbit.
Barbara sat up again.
‘You’ve gone quite pale, Verity. You can’t surely be in sympathy with this stupid invasion. Or can you?’
‘No,’ she replied quickly. ‘No. I just hope there isn’t a battle here. That’s all.’
But it wasn’t all. The Cavalier army was no longer an amorphous body of strangers. She’d met one of them. And that night, she lay in her bed tracing his face over and over in her mind.
It was a thin face with laughing brown eyes set beneath mobile brows. Not a handsome face, perhaps … but infinitely kind.
She didn’t know who he was and never would. But she didn’t want him to be thrashed or caught like a rat in a trap, so she laced her fingers together and prayed hard that God would protect him. It wasn’t much; but it was better than lying in the dark, wondering if her step-brother would come home drunk again … and, if he did, whether the bolt on her door was still strong enough to keep him out.
* * *
On the following morning, Joshua Vincent faced his son across the width of his splendid, panelled parlour and gave him his orders for the day.
Pallid and pink-eyed from the previous night’s excesses, Nathaniel said unwarily, ‘Oxfordshire?’ Then, more carefully, ‘Oh God. Does it have to be today?’
‘I’ve just said so, haven’t I? Do you think I’ve got where I am by sitting on my arse and saying tomorrow’ll do?’
Nathaniel eyed his bull-necked father with veiled dislike and smothered a yawn.
‘Can’t you go?’
‘No I bloody can’t. I’ve other fish to fry today. A bit of business down at the gaol.’
‘Oh.’ Nathaniel’s mouth curled. There was only one sort of case that interested his father enough to warrant time spent outside the court-room. The sort that didn’t arise often and usually only when people had a particular axe to grind. ‘A witch?’
Joshua nodded. ‘A wench from Rushwick, accused of over-looking the blacksmith’s wife and causing a neighbour’s cow to sicken. She makes a living with her needle – but there’s some as think she’s better-off than she ought to be on a bit of sewing.’
Right, thought Nathaniel cynically. Stories from distant parts spoke of witches who flew or changed shape. Here in Worcester they merely stopped hens from laying or curdled the cream. He wondered if his father really believed all this nonsense or whether he enjoyed a witch-trial for other reasons entirely. The last thought caused him to say idly, ‘Is she young?’
‘No more’n twenty-five. A black-haired, buxom piece with over-bold eyes.’
‘Well, that should make it interesting for you. But you’d best have a care, Father.’ Nathaniel’s teeth gleamed in a malicious smile. ‘After all, if she really is a witch, she may decide to over-look you.’
* * *
The cell in which Deborah Hart was chained stank of damp, fetid straw. She had been there a week, she thought – though it was hard to be sure. She had lost count of how many times the light had come and gone, filtering dimly down from the grating high above her head and enabling her to see the big grey rat which, next to her gaoler, was her most regular visitor. All she was sure of was that her hair was crawling with lice, the second gaoler hadn’t put his hand up her skirt since she’d smashed her iron-clad wrist against his face … and the rat was gaining confidence.
To begin with, she’d tried to come up with a way of proving that this whole mess had begun when Tom Barnet, the blacksmith, had put his arm around her while his wife was watching. A small piece of carelessness which was not Deborah’s fault but for which Mistress Barnet was making her pay dearly. Tom, so far as she knew, had merely received a clout on the ear with a skillet.
A charge of over-looking was easy to make but difficult to disprove. On the other hand, if that had been all she was accused of, Deborah felt she might have had a reasonable chance of talking her way out of it. Unfortunately, the first whisper of witchcraft tended to bring other accusations flooding in; and before she’d been in the gaol a day, Zachary Paine had added his mite by swearing that she’d caused his cow to go dry and made his best sow miscarry. All that was needed now, therefore, was for someone to say they’d seen her talking to her cat. Or perhaps, thought Deborah a shade hysterically, it was enough merely to have a cat.
She’d been interrogated twice so far – once by the parish constable immediately after he’d arrested her and then again by the sheriff after Zack Paine had finished making his deposition. Neither occasion had resulted in anything worse than repeated questioning and being made to walk round in circles because the constable was convinced that the devil didn’t like it. In one sense, this was a relief. In another, it meant that the worst was still to come. Everyone knew what they did to witches and Deborah existed in mortal dread of having those terrible, degrading things done to her. Dying, she often thought, would be preferable. But not – not by burning.
It was due, so the gaoler said, to the arrival of the Scottish army that her case had not yet come to court. Deborah gave silent thanks and hoped Charles Stuart stayed forever. Then, on a morning when the town outside her grating was still alive with booted feet and busy voices, the door of her cell opened to reveal a thickset, expensively-dressed man she had never seen before.
For a moment, he bent a beetle-browed stare on her. Then, curtly addressing the gaoler, he said, ‘Bring her up. The stench in here’d mak
e a dog vomit.’
Gripped by sudden panic, Deborah clung to her chains and tried to prevent the gaoler unlocking the manacles about her wrists – but to no avail. Weakened and dizzy, she was dragged upstairs to a small guard-room and thrown into the corner. A table stood in the centre of the room and the stranger sat on the edge of it, swinging his foot and trapping her with his eyes.
Joshua Vincent surveyed the woman he’d previously only seen through the grille of her cell door and was glad to see that he’d been right about her. She was young and sturdy and, beneath the grime, her skin looked very white. Worthier meat, he thought, than the two old crones who were all that had previously come his way.
Until the case of Granny Collett, Joshua hadn’t known how engrossing the business of witch-finding could be. Now, however, it was one of his main interests. He took care not to examine the reasons for this too carefully. He merely reminded himself that the Bible quite clearly said ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’ – which was something no one could argue with.
He let the silence drag on while he wondered if it would be unwise to dismiss the guard. Then, reluctantly deciding that it probably would, he withdrew the witch-probe from his pocket and laid it gently on the table beside him where the woman could see it.
Deborah had never seen one before but she knew what it was. Her lungs froze and she gazed at it with horrified fascination. Meanwhile, the man said abruptly, ‘I’m Magistrate Vincent. Maybe you’ve heard of me?’
She had – and again experienced that terrifying paralysis. He was the man who’d prosecuted two other women before her. One had drowned during the ducking; the other had been hanged.
Deborah swallowed and tried to pull herself together. The other women had been old and feeble-witted. She was neither. Forcing herself to sound calmer than she was, she said, ‘I’ve heard of you, sir. They say you consider yourself an expert.’
‘More than anyone else round here. Worry you, does it?’
‘Why should it? If you know something of witchcraft, you’ll be able to tell the innocent from the guilty. And I am innocent.’