The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3)

by Stella Riley

  Frowning absently, Eden shook his head.

  ‘Not if I can help it. Have you relatives you can go to?’

  ‘No. My husband’s dead and I – I’ve no one else,’ she replied faintly. And, overcome with the vicissitudes of the last weeks, crumpled quietly away on to the cobbles.

  * * *

  While, for want of a better solution, Eden concealed Mistress Hart amidst the usual assortment of wives, mistresses and whores, Verity Marriott learned that a severely wounded officer answering Captain Austin’s description had been moved, along with a number of other similarly unhopeful cases, to the cellar of the Commandery.

  On the following morning, sick with fright, she followed a guard down the steps into the malodourous gloom where a dozen or so men lay struggling to retain their frail hold on life. And there amongst them, on a lumpy pallet in the corner, she found Nicholas … his face sunken, his skin grey and his breathing scarcely perceptible beneath the thin blanket which covered him – yet still miraculously alive. Verity’s nerves snarled and she froze.

  Bored and eager to return to his dice-game, the guard said, ‘Well?’

  She swallowed hard and nodded.

  ‘Yes. It – it’s my brother. Does no one … is no one looking after him?’

  The guard shrugged and, twitching back the blanket, said, ‘The surgeon’s already done everything he could.’

  Unprepared for the mass of bandages wound awkwardly around the place where Nicholas’s left arm should have been, she made a small choking sound. She knelt in the dirty straw at his and said softly, ‘Nicholas? Nick? It – it’s Verity.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ said the guard impatiently. And he tramped away.

  Verity absorbed the matted brown hair, the colourless tightly-stretched skin and the empty unfocussed stare. And that was when the truth hit her. He was dying – but not of his wound, nor even of fever or infection. He was dying from lack of will to do otherwise.

  Fright and misery transmuted themselves into anger. She didn’t know if he was already past saving. She only knew that she had to do something. So she gritted her teeth, gave him a violent shake and said raggedly, ‘Wake up. You’re not going to die – do you hear me? You are not going to die!’ And was about to shake him again when, from the top of the stairs came footsteps and a new, extremely disapproving voice.

  ‘This place stinks like a bloody midden. When did you last empty the slop pails, you idle bugger?’

  ‘Yesterday morning, Sarge.’

  ‘That’s Sergeant Trotter to you, lad. And I suppose you’ve been too busy with your dice-box to do it since then, have you?’

  ‘I’m here on guard-duty, Sergeant. I ain’t a flaming cleaner.’

  ‘You’re here to do as you’re told. So move your arse and start getting this place fit to be seen. Colonel Maxwell’s on his way to see if you’ve got anybody fit to send south. And if he finds the buckets full to the brim and puke all over the floor, I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes - so get a move on!’

  The footsteps receded and a door slammed. Verity whispered rapidly, ‘Did you hear? Colonel Maxwell’s coming. He’s the one they say saved that woman charged with witchcraft. And if he’d put himself out for her, he might do as much for you.’ She shook Nicholas again. ‘Are you listening? He might be able to get you out of here. But not … not if you won’t wake up!’ And finally, in desperation, she slapped his face.

  It was nearly an hour before she met the Colonel who was her only hope and, by then, she’d managed to rouse Nicholas sufficiently to take a few sips of water but not enough to speak. Consequently, she had no idea whether he understood anything she’d been saying or not.

  Colonel Maxwell, who was younger than she’d expected, frowned at her and said, ‘This is no place for you. Go home.’

  She stood up and pushed back her hair. ‘Please. Help us.’

  ‘To do what?’ asked Eden automatically. But he already knew … just as, looking down at the fellow on the pallet, he knew that it was probably hopeless. As gently as he could, he said, ‘I’m sorry … but moving him now would almost certainly kill --’

  ‘It won’t! He hasn’t died yet and he won’t die now. Just help me get him out of this evil place.’ She spread pleading hands. ‘If he was your brother or your friend, would you leave him here? Would you?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t. But where do you want to take him? Back to your home?’

  ‘I can’t. My step-father would throw him into the street – and me with him.’ She hesitated and then, tried a different tack. ‘You met him yesterday at the courthouse. He’s Magistrate Vincent.’

  Eden’s eyes widened slightly and he gave a short laugh. Then he stared down at Nicholas. He still thought the case was hopeless … but he had taken a strong dislike to Joshua Vincent and the conditions in the room around him were a disgrace. Finally and with reluctance, he said, ‘Very well. I’ll have him moved – though God knows where to. And I have nobody who can undertake the task of nursing him. So --’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Verity interrupted him without giving a second thought to what she was promising. ‘I’ll look after him.’

  Eden wondered what on earth he was going to do with a dying man and a child and recognised that he should simply say no – just as yesterday he should have stayed out of the business of Deborah Hart. Faint ironic humour stirred and he murmured, ‘I must be completely out of my mind. As for what Sergeant Trotter is going to say … I hate to think.’

  * * *

  Much to Eden’s surprise, Nicholas Austin did not die. He made the journey from Worcester to London strapped to a pallet in one of the baggage wagons, nursed single-handedly by Verity until Sergeant Trotter – who didn’t believe in witchcraft but reckoned there was no smoke without fire – enlisted the aid of Mistress Hart.

  Whatever took place during the next two days was something – judging from the expression on his sergeant’s face – that Eden preferred not to know about. But at the end of them, Deborah appeared outside his billet one evening and said, ‘The young man is better, I think – and the girl has had some rest. She’s not his sister, by the way.’

  ‘Not?’

  ‘No. Her name is Marriott, his is Austin. And she thinks she’s in love with him.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ groaned Eden. ‘She’s just a child! And I suppose she also thinks it’s mutual?’

  ‘I hope not. As far as I can make out, she’d only met him twice before you turned up.’

  Eden closed his eyes and swore.

  ‘Wonderful! What the hell am I supposed to do with her?’

  ‘More to the point, what are you going to do with him? Put him in prison?’

  ‘I should. And in the end, I may not have any choice.’

  ‘Well, at least you’ve saved his life. And mine.’ She drew a slightly unsteady breath. ‘I don’t know how to thank you for that.’

  ‘By continuing to look after the children,’ returned Eden briskly. ‘And when young Austin is fit to hold a conversation, let me know.’

  * * *

  By the time they reached the outskirts of London and made camp on Hounslow Heath, Nicholas was able to sit up and even feed himself. He had not, however, become any more communicative and only ever spoke in response to direct questions. Informing Colonel Maxwell of this, Deborah added, ‘He’s still in pain but that isn’t the real problem. He’s depressed and shocked over the loss of his arm and I suspect he thinks this journey will end in the Tower. So the only future he sees is one he doesn’t want.’

  ‘And the girl?’

  ‘She’s starting to realise that saving a life isn’t always for the best … and it frightens her.’ Deborah looked into the hazel eyes, careful to disguise what she was beginning to feel for him. Then, with a faint smile, ‘If you’ve any comfort to offer, now might be a good time.’

  Eden looked back at her, wishing he didn’t remember what she looked like without her clothes. He also wished the night-dark eyes didn’t seem to be
able to see right through him. With a tolerable assumption of amusement, he said, ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘That’s up to you, Colonel. But Nicholas won’t be back on his feet for a while and Verity is seventeen years old, with no more idea of the world than a kitten. They’re not going to manage on their own.’

  ‘No. I suppose not. And what of you?’

  ‘I’ll be all right. I’ll find work in a tavern or a laundry or some such. I can turn my hand to most things.’ She faced him challengingly. ‘Are you going to talk to Nicholas?’

  Eden sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better if he’s well enough.’

  ‘He’s well enough. But don’t be surprised if he’s too apathetic to talk back.’

  * * *

  Verity scrambled to her feet when Colonel Maxwell appeared at the wagon and stammered, ‘C-Colonel! I w-wanted to come and thank you but Sergeant Trotter said --’

  ‘That you were to stay out of sight of the officers. Yes.’ Eden’s tone was pleasant but quelling. ‘I’d prefer as few people as possible to know who many rules I’m breaking.’ He looked into Nicholas’s expressionless eyes. ‘Since you’re awake, I think it’s time we had a talk.’

  Nicholas said nothing.

  Verity opened her mouth to reply for him but was forestalled by the Colonel saying firmly, ‘I’d be grateful if you could leave us for a time, Mistress Marriott.’ He waited for her to go and, when she had done so, sat down and came straight to the point. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Captain Sir Nicholas Austin.’

  ‘Which regiment?’

  ‘Colonel Peverell’s.’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ said Eden cheerfully. ‘Any good, is he?’

  ‘I thought so.’ The words were ambiguous, the tone one of pure apathy.

  Eden frowned slightly. ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘What is there to say? He did his best.’ A pause. ‘We all did.’

  ‘Not quite all, as I understand it. Leslie’s Horse was never engaged.’

  ‘Weren’t they? I don’t remember.’

  ‘What’s the last thing you do remember?’

  Nicholas turned his head away. ‘Seeing Ashley. Colonel Peverell. We’d got separated but I saw him again in Friar Street. He waved for me to join him only – only I was shot.’

  ‘And he couldn’t get you out?’

  ‘Obviously not.’ Nicholas’s brow furrowed with effort. ‘I think Francis was wounded, too. I – I remember his coat being all bloody.’

  ‘Francis?’ said Eden sharply. ‘Not Francis Langley, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes.’ For the first time, Nicholas looked vaguely interested. ‘Do you know him?’

  Eden laughed. ‘Oh yes. I’ve known him since I was eight. But the last time I saw him was at Upton, a couple of days before the battle. His fellows had just nearly roasted mine alive and I wanted to murder him. He thought I was going to do it, too. But it’s a bit difficult to kill somebody you’ve been birds-nesting with, don’t you find?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Nicholas shifted restlessly and the tiny spark in his eyes faded. ‘Verity says I owe you my life.’

  ‘No. You owe Verity and Mistress Hart your life.’

  ‘All three of you, then.’ Another pause. ‘What are you going to do with me?’

  ‘Offer you a bargain,’ replied Eden, having been aware for some time that it would come to this. ‘Give me your word that you won’t fight for Charles Stuart again and I’ll --’

  ‘With one arm?’ snapped Nicholas bitterly.

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first. However. Give me your parole and I’ll try to keep you out of the Tower. I can’t promise – but I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Why?’ A tiny flicker of hope mingled oddly with the desolation in the brown eyes. ‘Why would you do that?’

  Eden sighed and stood up.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure. Let’s just say I’m reluctant to have everybody’s efforts on your behalf go to waste … and leave it at that.’

  ‘But where --?’

  ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. In short,’ grinned Eden, ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. But when I find the solution, you’ll be the first to know.’

  ~ * * ~ * * ~

  ENTR’ACTE

  Devizes - October 1651

  At around the time Nicholas was beginning to return to the land of the living, His Majesty the King finally landed on the coast of France. His adventures in the seven weeks since the battle had included an oak tree, a priest’s hole and the help of many brave and loyal souls. He’d been disguised as a groom, a scullion and an eloping lover. But he’d reached safety with his head still on his shoulders – which, under the circumstances, was a miracle.

  Knowing none of this and with less help of their own to call on, Colonel Peverell and Major Langley were still lurking in a ruined barn near Devizes, wearily contemplating their next move.

  They’d escaped from Worcester without too much difficulty. Jem Barker – always one step ahead of possible pursuit – had met them outside St Martin’s gate, laden with as many of their combined belongings as he could carry; and because General Leslie’s cavalry would naturally be fleeing north towards the border, Ashley had reasoned that their own safest course lay in the opposite direction.

  They’d discarded all items of clothing which marked them as soldiers, travelled largely by night along back-roads and left the acquisition of provisions to Jem. For the first few days – despite Francis’s wound refusing to completely stop bleeding and leaving him weak as a result – it had been relatively easy. By the end of a week, however, the net was beginning to tighten as Commonwealth troops arrested every suspected Cavalier in their path while they scoured the land in search of the King. And they were still many miles from the sea.

  Although he was rarely out of their thoughts, they spoke of Nicholas only once. Francis said, ‘He may be alive. If he is, they’ll have taken him prisoner.’

  And Ashley replied, ‘Along with thousands of others. You’ve enough experience to know how these things work. Firstly, how many surgeons do you suppose they have? And by the time they’ve separated the living from the dead and supplied aid to those who have a chance of surviving, there’ll be a fresh set of corpses.’ Then, later, ‘I should have gone back. I might not have been able to save him – but I should have tried.’ And later still, on a furious explosion of breath, ‘God damn David Leslie! If he’d engaged his Horse we could have won. God damn him to the lowest pit of hell.’

  By the time they passed Devizes, Francis’s arm was finally showing small signs of improvement. And that was when Ashley announced that trying to take ship for France or the Netherlands while the whole country was still on the look-out for fugitives from the battle was as quick a way as any to court capture.

  ‘Very likely.’ Unshaven and filthier than he had ever been in his life, Francis shifted his back against the rough stone wall of the barn and winced as pain lanced through his arm. ‘How do you think His Majesty is faring?’

  ‘Better than us, I hope. Wilmot was with him – and Derby and Gifford and some others. Too many, probably. The larger the party, the less likely it is to pass unnoticed. But hopefully they’ve managed to get Charles out of the country – or at least found him somewhere safe to hide until they can.’

  ‘And us? How long can we go on like this? Our appearance isn’t exactly calculated to go unremarked, is it?’

  ‘No. So if we’re going to wait until the chase dies down, our first task is to exchange our present clothing for something more humble.’

  ‘Is that possible?’ asked Francis, distastefully eyeing the state of his coat.

  ‘Yes. We may be in rags – but they’re good rags,’ replied Ashley wryly. ‘What we need is homespun and clouted shoes.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You’ll have to stay out of sight until your arm is healed. Battle-wounds are likely to be a bit of a give-away. So for the time being, Jem and I will continue to forage as before. But when you’re fit again, we
go back into Devizes – separately, of course – and we find work.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You heard.’ Colonel Peverell smiled grimly. ‘We hire ourselves out as stable-hands, potboys, gardeners, scullions – anything which doesn’t require skills we haven’t got. And we act. You can manage that, can’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Francis truthfully. ‘I really don’t know. But if it’s a choice between that and spending another few months in the Tower, I’ll do my best. Anything, in fact, that will eventually lead us out of this nightmare and back to civilisation.’

  ‘Predictable as ever, I see.’

  ‘Naturally. I haven’t cared to mention it … but the thought of a bath and some decent clothes is the only thing which has been keeping me going for several miles now. That and a little fantasy of my own which I prefer to nurture in private.’

  ‘Hold on to it,’ advised Ashley. ‘It may help soften the pain when Jem hacks off your lovelocks with a knife.’

  ~ * * ~ * * ~

  ACT TWO

  LA PETITE GALZAIN

  Paris, May to August, 1652

  ‘Worldly wealth he cared not for, desiring only to make both ends meet.’

  Thomas Fuller

  ONE

  In contrast to the bright spring weather which cheered the rest of Paris, storm clouds gathered over the rue Vieille du Temple where rehearsals for the Théâtre du Marais’ forthcoming revival of Le Cid had ground to a halt for the third time in less than an hour.

  ‘Imbecile!’ roared Clermont, storming down on Etienne Lepreux. ‘Im-bec-ile! Your move is upstage. Upstage! Do you understand where that is? It is back there! A simple direction even a complete idiot should be able to follow. And you do not ever, under any circumstances, cross in front of me!’

  Athenais de Galzain sat on the edge of the stage and sank her teeth into an apple. Not for the first time, she wondered whether she’d been wise to decline the tentative approach from the Illustre Théâtre. Jean-Baptiste Poquelin de Molière’s clever touch with comedy was earning his troupe a sound reputation. But joining a touring company wouldn’t be the quickest way of advancing her career; and at the Illustre Théâtre she would be competing for roles with Madeleine Béjart – who was as red-haired as Athenais herself and also had the advantage of being Jean-Baptiste Poquelin’s mistress.