The Rebel’s Daughter

by Anita Seymour

  “If King James is a Catholic.” Henry shielded his eyes with the newssheet Bayle handed him. “Does that mean we all have to be Papists?” He had discarded the peruke and tied his sandy hair back into a queue. Helena liked him better that way.

  “I fear, Master, that if he isn’t stopped.” Lumm rolled into a crouch, his arms wrapped round his knees. “What is happening in France may affect us here, too.”

  Helena closed her eyes briefly, the sun glowing red behind her eyelids. Isn’t that why her father had gone to join Monmouth? To stop King James turning everyone into Papists?

  “Perhaps not that,” Bayle said, his voice soft. “From what I hear, he was more in favour of removing the restrictions on Papists. Give them equal status to Anglicans.”

  “Huh!” Henry snorted. “How can they have equal status? This is a Protestant country.” Henry quoted their father word for word. Did he even fully understand what he was saying?

  Helena opened her eyes and caught the look of understanding that passed between the steward and manservant. Circumstances had wrought a change between them these last weeks, where Bayle deferred to Lumm on duties he had performed since he was a boy, and, Lumm for his part, often sought the older man’s advice. Lumm might wear more velvet and fine linen than any steward she had seen, but despite her misgivings, their combined presence was reassuring.

  “Monmouth and Churchill used to be such good friends,” Mother said, her voice low and distracted. “I met him once, such a handsome man.” Mother gave a sigh, her eyes empty. Helena was surprised she had been listening. Since her father had left, Mother’s concentration had suffered. Her conversation had become discordant, and rambling at times, or she panicked so badly she had to be given sleeping draughts by her maid Ruth.

  “Says here,” Henry read from the newssheet, “that Monmouth has gained possession of Axminster, and saw Albemarle’s militia off outside the town.” He pushed strands of damp sandy hair away from his forehead.

  “Don’t call them rebels, Henry,” Helena snapped, nibbling at a thumbnail. “I hate that expression.”

  “When they reached Taunton,” Henry continued, ignoring her, “the townsfolk lined the streets to welcome the duke. A party of schoolgirls presented him with a pennant.” He slapped the page, grinning. “You see, Mother? They love Monmouth.”

  “It’s not all good news, Master Henry.” Bayle batted away a persistent fly with a hand the size of a small shovel. “There was that skirmish at Ashill.”

  Helena jerked up her head and stared at him. “What skirmish?”

  “A party of Lord Oxford’s Horse tried to roust the rebel outposts.” A rivulet of sweat worked its way down Bayle’s forehead. “Monmouth lost four of his men, and many were wounded.” Lumm offered him a lace kerchief, but at Bayle’s dismissive snort, returned it to his pocket with a flourish. Lummis cavalier ways had always been a source of amusement between them.

  “Did the rebels kill any troopers?” Henry asked, tugging a wide leaf from a nearby shrub and chewing the stem.

  Helena winced but chose not to reprimand him again. Bayle already knew she was a trial to her parents, and suspected Lumm was fast coming to the same conclusion. “Not subservient enough for an unmarried girl,” she had heard Bayle say once.

  “They lost three men.” Lumm leaned back on one elbow. “Churchill’s Lieutenant Monoux got a pistol shot through the head for his trouble.”

  Henry raised a fist, and gave a loud whoop, which was greeted by amused laughter from the two men.

  “There wasn’t supposed to be any fighting.” Helena slumped down on the nearest bench, replacing her empty cup on the tray. “Father said Monmouth was to take a contingent of men to London and demand King James establish the supremacy of the Anglican Church. Now all the talk is of armies marching, and who has claimed which town…it’s as if we are at war.

  “Mistress Helena.” Lummis tone softened. “The king was hardly going to sit back and let his nephew usurp his throne.”

  “That wasn’t the plan.” Helena’s voice rose as memories of the day the messenger who came to tell them Monmouth had landed at Lyme with eighty men, crowded her head. No dark, brooding stranger riding a sweating horse into the courtyard under cover of night, but a nondescript labourer.

  How delighted her father had been to receive his summons to Lyme. Uncle Edmund and Aaron could hardly wait long enough to saddle their horses before they were gone.

  The snap-snap-snap of a startled pigeon crashed through the canopy above, brought back her thoughts to the present.

  “Helena’s right,” her mother’s voice held tears. “They should never have challenged the king. He’ll crush them.”

  “Monmouth’s cause might still prevail, my lady. The people still want him,” Bayle said

  “Don’t try to humour me!” Mother snapped, her eyes flashing now where they had been lifeless a second before. “King James has declared Monmouth a traitor. His own nephew - and he wants him dead! What will he do to my husband for the same offence?”

  She grabbed the newssheet from Henry and thrust it under the manservant’s chin. “Monmouth has accused King James of killing his father and appropriating his crown while the rightful heir was out of the country.” She jabbed the sheet with a fingernail, reading aloud. “And here, it says that his nephew must be, “seized and apprehended, together with all his, adherents, abettors, and advisers.” She flung the pages onto the grass. “They’re signing their own death warrants.”

  “But Monmouth says…” Henry began, but she cut him off with a snort.

  “Monmouth says,” she mimicked. “James the second is our crowned King, and Catholic or not, anyone who says otherwise is putting themselves on the side of the devil.”

  “Mother!” Helena’s stomach lurched. How could she talk of Father in that way?

  “What are we to do?” Mother muttered, her eyes darting round as if on the lookout for eavesdroppers. “We’ll lose everything, and I’ll never see my husband again. We’re doomed.”

  Hendry’s face blanched and he eased away from her reaching hand, clawing at his sleeve.

  “Bayle!” Helena rose, a hand flapping toward him. “Do something!”

  However, it was Lumm who scrambled to his feet, calling to a passing servant. “Fetch Lady Elizabeth’s maid.”

  Tense moments passed until Ruth arrived at what passed for a run on her tree-trunk legs. She swept the occupants of the garden with accusing eyes, then ushered the distraught woman through the rear doors into the house, slamming them shut.

  Helena stared at her lap, dismayed at how Mother’s outbursts had become more frequent in their vehemence, though what she said made awful sense. To the world outside Loxsbeare, Sir Jonathan Woulfe was a traitor. Traitors were executed in the most horrible way; their heads displayed on pikes on London Bridge, their possessions seized by the crown, and their families disgraced.

  Her throat felt dry and tears threatened. She palmed them away, unwilling to let Henry see her cry. What would happen to her father and Uncle Ned? Aaron was only twenty; his life had hardly begun. What sort of future could any of them have with their father disgraced and their name sullied?

  Then her fears turned inward, and her selfish bone intruded. Would any respectable man want to marry his son to a traitor’s daughter?

  Chapter 2

  In the space of a few days, the weather changed from blistering heat that dried up ponds and cracked the earth, to relentless rain that battered the standing corn to the ground. Damp crept into every crevice of the house, tracing patches of green slime on north facing walls, dragging Helena’s spirits even lower.

  During a brief lull in a summer storm, a visitor trotted his sorrel Percheron through the manor gates, and dismounted. Familiar with its surroundings, the sturdy horse stood passive, and would likely remain so until he was led away.

  “Good Morrow, Master Ffoyle.” Helena strode forward in greeting. “And how is this soft old boy today?” She cupped the horse’s
wide muzzle in both hands, and was rewarded with a gentle whicker.

  As tall as Bayle, though he carried less bulk, Samuel Ffoyle's smiles were infrequent, the sound of his raised voice even more so. He always dressed in unadorned earth colors, which Helena’s father always said was less a religious display inherited from his Puritan parents than his aversion to wasting time visiting tailors. The changing times of Charles Stuart’s reign had fostered a close relationship between Samuel Ffoyle, sheep-farmer-turned-merchant, and Sir Jonathan Woulfe, landed gentry and courtier.

  “A good man in a crisis”, her father always said of him.

  “Mistress Helena.” Samuel Ffoyle inclined his head, though did not slow his stride toward the front door.

  Helena hurried to keep pace with him.

  The footman bowed the visitor into the great hall, but refused Helena’s offer to sit.

  “You are an honest Anglican, are you not, Master Ffoyle?” Helena asked, drawing his attention away from a painting of a long dead Woulfe wearing a ruff he must have seen a hundred times before.

  Instead of an answer, Samuel’s eyes swiveled to her face and remained there, waiting.

  “I know you are, of course,” she said, aware of having already stepped beyond the boundaries of propriety. “Yet you chose not to go to Somerset and uphold that faith?”

  His eyes widened fractionally, then with sigh, he placed his hat on a table. “I have a wife and six children to protect, and a large farm to run. Indeed, my eldest sons would have taken themselves off to Somerset by now, had I not reminded them of their duty.”

  “You forbade them to go?” Helena pictured the faces of Elias, who was Aaron’s age, and Seth, a year older than Henry.

  “When they have households of their own to manage, they will be free to abandon them as they choose.”

  About to voice a disrespectful retort, Helena clamped her lips together, resentful of the fact the Ffoyle offspring were safe at home while her menfolk were not. It didn’t seem fair. Before she could voice her feelings, the rustle of heavy silk heralded the arrival of her mother. With a flick of her hand, she indicated Helena should withdraw.

  She was about to obey, but at the last second, took the window seat, telling herself she would accept whatever punishment Mother would mete out later.

  Samuel perched awkwardly on a spindle-legged chair, his knees angled outward from the narrow squab.

  “Lady Elizabeth,” he began slowly, as if unsure how to approach the subject, “King James has demanded Prince William of Orange return the Scots Brigade from Holland, to add to the forces against Monmouth.”

  “Prince William did not acquiesce, surely?” she said, her manner calmer than she had been lately. “He supports Monmouth, who was brought up with the Princess Mary. They are cousins, and very close.”

  “The Prince can hardly refuse.” Samuel sighed. “Those troops were on loan only in his fight with the French. They are King James’ men after all.”

  Lady Elizabeth’s delicate hands fluttered to her throat. “Do you think Monmouth knows?”

  “If we know, then we must assume he does too.” Samuel shrugged his shoulders resignedly.

  “Also…the news from Scotland is…disappointing.” Samuel rubbed his hands along his thighs. “A strong militia presence ensured the few men who dared turn out in support of the Earl of Argyll. He managed to elude the Militia for a couple of weeks, but few gathered to his standard, for fear of reprisals. He’s been arrested and taken to Edinburgh.” He closed his eyes and exhaled.

  “Argyll made Monmouth promise not to declare himself King,” Mother said, demonstrating a rare moment of lucidity.

  “He was, my lady. However,” Samuel paused. “In Cheshire too, the number who arrived in support of the duke fell short of that anticipated.”

  “I see.” Lady Elizabeth stared blankly, the colour draining from her already pale face.

  “The rebels are having a rough time in Somerset,” Samuel went on. “Their supplies are nearly gone, and rumour has it that they have resorted to pilfering and free quartering on the locals.”

  “I doubt that made them very popular,” Lady Elizabeth gave a snort. “Is it true King James has pardoned those rebels who have agreed to return to their homes?” She rocked back and forth in her seat.

  It was a bad sign. Samuel saw it too, and winced.

  “How many have left the rebel army?” Helena demanded.

  Samuel swung his head in Helena’s direction, his eyes sad. “Hundreds maybe. Possibly a thousand.”

  Lady Elizabeth’s delicate fingers picked at the lace on her cuffs until it tore, and for long seconds no one spoke.

  Helena’s glanced out of the window. How much bad news could there be? Beyond the leaded panes, slate clouds gathered their skirts to bustle away and deluge another part of the Devon hills. The silence stretched, broken by Samuel’s cough as he rose and bowed. “I must take my leave.”

  “So soon?” Lady Elizabeth looked distraught. “I hoped you would dine with us.”

  “Forgive me, my lady, but the roads will be quiet at this time of day, and the fewer who know I am here, the better for you.”

  Helena followed him out, and loitered beside the open front door, as a groom brought Samuel’s horse to the mounting block.

  She frowned, wondering why the lad was not Parry, then remembered with a pang that the cheerful boy with the permanent grin had gone to join the rebels.

  Helena retreated, then paused as Lumm appeared from the stables and engaged Samuel in conversation.

  Helen watched, bemused by the intensity of their exchange. She would have given half her dowry to know what they were talking about.

  If she still had a dowry.

  * * *

  “You didn’t show Lady Elizabeth the other newssheet then, Tobias?” Samuel nodded to the folded pages that peeked from the stewards jerkin, signalling to the boy who held his horse to wait.

  “What good would it have served?” Tobias glanced down, but didn’t remove the paper from his coat. “Monmouth has marched toward Bath.”

  “Bath eh? Samuel stroked his chin. “A brave move, since the Royalist troops are there.”

  Tobias shrugged. “They were attacked at Norton Saint Philip by the Duke of Grafton’s troops.”

  “Grafton fighting his half-brother,” Samuel mused, nodding. “I expect he’s eager to prove disloyalty doesn’t run in the family. What happened?”

  “A disaster for both sides.” Tobias’ gaze raked the courtyard. “The report says they were penned in by the hedges, and that blood ran like a river down the lane where they fought.”

  Samuel winced. “I suppose there’s no way of knowing the names of those killed?”

  Tobias shook his head.

  The lad holding his horse shuffled and the animal whickered, stamping his massive hooves.

  “Trust you to use a working horse as a personal mount,” Tobias reached to stroke the horse’s soft muzzle.

  “I like him, he’s slow, steady, and nothing will topple him. He suits. Now what else do you have to tell me?”

  “Monmouth cut his losses and retreated to Frome,” Tobias went on. “They got as far as Trowbridge, but the royal troops men cut off their escape route.”

  “Where’s Monmouth now?” Samuel asked, frowning.

  “The report ends before that.” Tobias tapped his pocket. “Though gossip in the city says he reached Wells two days ago. The rebels damaged the west front of the cathedral. They tore lead from the roof and smelted it into bullets.”

  “The fools!” Samuel mounted the block and slipped into the saddle. “Monmouth won’t get to Bristol now, let alone London.”

  “Gets worse,” Tobias added. “They broke the windows and smashed the organ and the furnishings. They even stabled their horses in the nave.” He squinted up at the mounted man, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand.

  Samuel adjusted his hat before replying. “You’re right not to upset Lady Elizabeth further, Tob
ias.” He turned the horse toward the gate. “However, if I were you, I’d keep that news-sheet away from Mistress Helena, she’ll be asking awkward questions soon enough.”

  “She distrusts me, that one.” Tobias pulled a face.

  “She doesn’t know you, Tobias.”

  “Doesn’t know who I am, you mean?” His voice held bitterness.

  Samuel turned his horse away, not prepared to discuss the subject further. Not at the present moment.

  Tobias rushed forward and grabbed the reins, halting the horse who chomped at the bit noisily. “I would never have raised the subject in Sir Jonathan’s presence. But now?”

  “It’s a bad time.” Samuel grimaced, urging his horse forward. He had reached the gates before he heard Tobias’s angry shout.

  “It’s always a bad time!”

  At the top of South Street, Samuel slowed his horse to a canter, his thoughts dwelling on recent events. Two hundred Whigs had been arrested in London, among them prominent cloth workers and members of his Samuel’s guild. He had written letters of protest on their behalf, while reassuring the City Magistrates of his own loyalty to the king despite his own Whig leanings.

  Unsurprisingly, Samuel had come under scrutiny since the Duke’s landing, although he chose not to mention that to Lady Elizabeth. His father had been a Puritan, but disinclined to martyrdom, Samuel had furrowed a less controversial path. Although he still had to watch out for accusing fingers.

  There would always be those willing to throw suspicion on others, to further their own ambitions.

  With a nod to the porter at the West gate, Samuel urged the plodding horse on the Exe Bridge. Entering St Thomas, he pulled his cloak tighter against a gust of damp wind, and peered beneath the rim of his hat at the darkening sky. Leaning forward, he patted the animal’s steaming neck, murmuring reassurances.