The Rebel’s Daughter

by Anita Seymour

  The big old horse didn’t like the rain.

  An image of Tobias’s discontented face floated unbidden into his head. Samuel sighed, recalling a year before when he had come across him lounging on the cobbles outside the Ship Inn in St Martins Lane; a restless air and an eye for mischief.

  Over a jug of fine ale, Samuel had struck up a conversation with the landlord.

  “Tell me, Jim,” he lifted his jug towards Tobias, who stood with his arm round a serving girl, making her blush. “Why’s your Tobias hanging about with nothing to do but annoy the wenches?”

  Jim’s eyes slid sideways resignedly. “Aye, he’s a puzzle that.” He poured a jug of ale and served another customer, then balanced an elbow on the back of the chair opposite Samuel. “Too proud fer this place, and restless. And him all ‘o three and twenty. Dunno what’s to become ‘o him.”

  Samuel nodded, thoughtful, just as Emily Lumm sashayed into his line of sight.

  “Master Ffoyle.” She bobbed a slow curtsey, which for all its simplicity held a solicitation. She impaled him with her brown-eyed stare in a look Samuel recalled from her childhood. As if she knew something, but had promised not to tell. The years had given Tobias” mother a more voluptuous body, but she still possessed the bearing of a girl.

  And that look.

  After a brief word with Sir Jonathan, Tobias had been installed at Tobias at Loxsbeare in the post of steward.

  His new employer found the young man entertaining and intelligent, with ideas of his own to improve the estate. Even Bayle accepted him as an asset without resentment, and Henry certainly liked him.

  The older son, Aaron, didn’t seem to take much notice. His position as crown prince of Loxsbeare was secure, giving him no reason to be on the lookout for usurpers.

  Helena, on the other hand, cast suspicious eyes in the direction of Tobias. Headstrong young man that he was, Tobias teased the girl without a thought for how she, or the other servants, might view such forward behavior.

  What did his future hold, should Sir Jonathan not return?

  Fat drops of rain drummed onto Samuel’s cloak. His horse nickered and shook his mane, sending an arching spray of water into the air.

  Samuel sighed again, too weary to tackle that particular problem today, and gave himself up to the old horse’s canter until he turned into his own gate.

  * * *

  Jonathan’s boots scuffed the well-worn steps, an occasional clang of a sword against stone followed by a muffled curse, audible from below. Evidently, he was not the only one who found St Mary’s church tower a hard climb.

  Below the tower, the River Parret snaked like molten silver through the centre of Bridgwater, toward the flat expanse of marshland. Jonathan bowed to the man in head-to-toe black at the parapet, the garter star emblazoned on his breast. He stood taller than most men, with the air of someone used to the subservience of others. In his case, though, his status had been achieved later than most.

  The wind lifted his black periwig from his shoulders, threatening to tear his wide brimmed hat from his head and launching it into Cornhill, below.

  On any other day this would have amused him. Yet today, his handsome features twisted into an expression of irritation. James, Duke of Monmouth was a troubled man in no mood for levity.

  Lord Grey handed the Duke a spyglass, as Captain Hucker and Major Wade emerged through the low door onto the roof.

  “Would you say they are about three miles away?” Jonathan asked, his spyglass trained onto the rows of white tents dotted with red coated figures spread on the moor; men Monmouth once commanded to defeat the Scots Covenanters at Bothwell Bridge in seventy-nine. Friends who were now his mortal enemies.

  “More like four,” Lord Grey said. “Our plan might work.”

  “What might work?” Jonathan folded his arms across his chest and regarded Grey with suspicion, his normal stance since he had learned how manipulative the man could be.

  “Attack under cover of darkness.” Gray’s unctuous voice made Jonathan squirm. “If we surprise them, we have a good chance at victory.”

  “Better, maybe, but not good,” Jonathan muttered. “What about the original plan to blockade the town?” This, too, seemed an equally bad move as the townsfolk were unlikely to commit their cattle and grain to what they must by now consider a lost cause.

  “A ploy only, Jon.” Grey waved a dismissive hand. “Attack is our best option.”

  Jonathan fell silent, resigned to the fact that Grey always spoiled for a fight. With flattery and false assurances, he had swayed Monmouth to his way of thinking. The Duke still believed they could reach London, where, Grey had convinced him, the Capital would welcome him as their king.

  “Feversham's men are well-trained, many with battle experience,” Jonathan said. “Churchill is a good soldier; and then there are Percy Karce’s men.” Those infamous “Lambs”; men who wouldn’t be cowed by a bunch of farmers wielding nothing more threatening than sharpened scythes attached to pitchforks, though Jonathan forbore to say so aloud.

  “They look to have no more men than I.” Monmouth swung his spyglass over the horizon “However, I know those men. They will fight.”

  “Tell His Majesty what you told me.” Lord Grey beckoned to a nervous-looking young man in shabby clothes who hung back by the tower door. He had given his name as Godfrey, and claimed he possessed useful intelligence.

  Jonathan flicked Grey a glance of distaste. He wished the man wouldn’t insist on calling Monmouth that. Wasn’t the duke already full enough of his own importance, as it was? He had even started retelling the story of Lucy Walter having married King Charles when a prince in exile, a claim dismissed as lies by his father, King Charles, years before.

  Godfrey crept forward, kneading his felt hat in both hands. “There be two thousand on the moor, sir - Your Majesty. “Bout a thousand in Middlezoy and the same in Otherey. But they don’t know the ditches like I does.” He sidled closer to the Duke. “If you makes for “ere, sir.” Godfrey dragged a grubby finger across a hand drawn map pulled from inside his coat, “…go along the old Bristol road towards Bawdrip, and then turn south along Bradney Lane and Marsh Lane. It’s the longer route, but your chances of being seen are low.” His dirty-nailed finger stabbed at the page. “Here be the Black Ditch, which is marked by a large rock. I could get you the other side of the Bussex Rhine and right into their camp before they know what’s happenin’.”

  Monmouth lowered his spyglass and stared at the man down his nose, then raised the glass again. “The horses are set far apart from the foot. If we can infiltrate their lines and keep them apart, we may have the advantage. Our spies tell us their discipline is not good.”

  “Indeed not,” Captain Hucker gasped, still winded from the climb. “They drink themselves into a stupor on local cider every night.”

  “No guards have been posted,” Nathaniel Wade added. “Though they have guns laid out on the town road.”

  “We could avoid those by making a detour north of Chedzoy.” Grey arched a brow at each of them, looking more sly than reassuring. “Our chances of victory are doubled.”

  “The Cavalry could lead, your Majesty.” Gray’s lip curled into a leering half-smile.

  Besides, by now the whole countryside knew what they were about. Perhaps anything was better than dodging Ogelthorpe and his troop through the countryside, until they ended up back at Lyme where they started, or being captured and hanged by Feversham’s men.

  Nothing had gone the way he had thought it would. They should have been in London by now, cheered on by an enthusiastic crowd, not still being harried across Somerset by the King’s troops. Besides, his lodgings were squalid, and the landlord sour-tempered, although more civil since being assured his guest intended paying his bill.

  Most of their men were camped out in people’s houses, or in fields sodden by days of rain, with no shelter at all, ransacking the local farms for horse feed. No wonder Bridgwater had been less than happy to receive
them.

  Their march into Taunton had been the high point of the expedition. The celebration that followed at Captain Hacker’s house was reminiscent of those heady days of the Green Ribbon Club, when they would drink the night away at the Kings Head, speculating on a world under Monmouth’s kingship.

  Those days were an illusion, Jonathan realised now, and King Charles, aware of his bastard son’s involvement in a traitorous society, had protected him, and in doing so, his friends too.

  It was one thing drinking to Monmouth’s health and damning the Duke of York when King Charles was still alive. Now, King James had the perfect opportunity to exact his revenge on the nephew he hated.

  Jonathan glanced across at Monmouth, whose head was bent over Geoffrey’s plans, a frown on his handsome face. Was his resolve still strong? Jonathan’s brother, Edmund seemed to think so, but then for years Edmund had been straining against his domestic tethers in search of adventure.

  Now, they were cornered, unable to get to Bristol, let alone London, with that Frenchman out on the moor biding his time.

  “We shall do it.” Monmouth snapped the spyglass shut for the third time in as many minutes. “That Huguenot would never expect it.” He handed the spyglass over his shoulder without looking to see who took it.

  “We march tonight at midnight, with strict orders to maintain total silence. Every man is charged with dispatching the man beside him with a knife, should he utter a sound to betray our presence.” He looked into each of their faces in turn, gave a curt nod, then clattered down the tower steps, the others following.

  “How many of the men do even have knives?” Jonathan muttered. Sighing, he pushed himself away from the wall and set off back to the inn and his flea-ridden bed in the hope of a few hours’ sleep.

  Chapter 3

  Henry leaned against a wooden stall and watched his sister through a crack in the half-closed door, as she stomped over clumps of wet hay scattered across the yard.

  “She doesn’t know I’m here, does she?” Bayle said from behind him.

  Henry jumped and swung round, having thought himself alone. “No, she’s going toward the kitchens.”

  Bayle half rose in a stance that preceded a bow, halted by Hendry’s impatient gesture that sent him back down again. Henry sported more manure on his clothes than a cowshed, and had hay sticking out of his shirt. This was hardly a time for formalities.

  “I suppose I cannot avoid her forever.” Bayle hooked his foot round a stool and dragged it toward him, gesturing Henry to sit.

  “What does she want?” Henry asked, straddling the stool.

  “She read something about Colonel Percy Kirke in the Gazette. When asked, Lumm said he knew nothing about the man, so he warned me she would search me out instead.”

  “Who is he? This Kirke, and what do you know about him?”

  Bayle picked up a small tool and applied it to a piece of leather.

  “The Queen Dowager brought Tangier as part of her dowry when she married King Charles.”

  “I know. Father told me about Tangier, though I don’t recall much. It’s a far-off place he said, very hot, and with savage people.”

  “No more than our own,” Bayle said under his breath, then continued, louder. “Kirke maintained the garrison there, in command of the regiment. Their emblem was a Paschal Lamb, which earned them the nickname “Karce’s Lambs”.

  “A strange emblem for fighting men,” Henry mused, frowning.

  “I believe the Lamb is from the house of Braganza, and signifies Christian men against the Infidels.”

  “Don’t the Moroccans and Berbers call us infidels too?” Henry asked, aware he was being provoking. However, at least his present audience wouldn’t threaten him with a whipping for insolence.

  “I believe so, Master, though if you don’t mind, I won’t argue the point with you just now.” He twisted the softened leather round his fingers, snapping it gently. “As I was saying, Kirke has a fearsome reputation. His men are brutal, taking pride in their savagery.”

  “How do you know that?” he whispered, wishing now he had not asked.

  “I grew up with a man who served with 'im. He’s been dead these two years.” He shrugged, as if this fact made a difference. “Karce’s a drunken brute, in charge of a drunken regiment, who would kill a man merely to test the edge of his weapon.” Hendry’s horrified gasp was smothered too late. “Don’t listen to me, Master,” he rushed on. “Who knows the truth of it? When a man’s belly is full of cider he’ll say anything.”

  “And these Tangier soldiers? They are to fight against Monmouth?” Henry fought to keep his voice calm.

  “Aye,” Bayle exhaled slowly, muttering, “and may God protect those poor boys.”

  The smell of manure clogged Hendry’s throat, and the need for fresh, untainted air became suddenly urgent.

  He leapt to his feet, sending the stool over behind him and headed for the house, ignoring Bayle’s voice calling after him.

  He slammed heavy oak door behind him, and took the stairs two at a time, startling a maid on her way down.

  In the comparative safety of his room, he wrenched off his filthy work clothes and hurled them into a corner for a maid to rescue. The words, “a drunken brute, in charge of a drunken regiment” kept repeating in his head as he struggled into a clean shirt and wrestled with the drawstrings

  Father may be able to fight Karce’s men, and perhaps Uncle Edmund could handle himself against soldiers, though neither had ever been in a real fight before. What of Aaron? His big brother’s only experience with a sword had been played out on the grass on the Weare Cliffs. Surely in a proper battle he would be killed?

  His panic for his family was slowly replaced by burning shame that Bayle’s talk of the Tangiers brought such overpowering relief for himself. How he had argued and ranted with both his father and uncle against being left at home, insisting he could fight as well as any of them.

  “There’ll be no fighting,” his father had laughed. “This isn’t a battle, it’s more of a protest under arms.”

  Father had been wrong. They all had been. King James wasn’t sending veteran fighters to meet a protest.

  * * *

  On his way downstairs again, Henry paused on the half-landing. His mother would be with Ruth at this time of day, and the Great Hall was a lonely place on one’s own.

  Instead, he retreated to the window seat, one leg bent and his arms wrapped around his knee.

  A heavy rainstorm had moved west, changing to cloudless heat in the space of an hour, the stillness disturbed by an occasional call of a bird or bleat of a sheep from the fields beyond the courtyard walls.

  Henry came to a decision. He would keep his cowardice to himself in front of Mother and Helena. How else could he describe the giddy relief he felt at not being expected to wield a sword against another Englishman?

  The sound of Helena’s familiar footsteps as she climbed the stairs brought a smile to his lips. “I’m convinced Bayle is hiding from me.” She threw herself onto the seat beside him, forcing him to budge to make room. “They treat me like a child still, when I am quite old enough to be an adult. I mean, I was betrothed this time last year, I - Henry, are you listening to me?” She nudged him roughly.

  Her voice droned on beside him like a demented bee. She jutted her chin close to his face. “I said, have you noticed how bad-tempered Mother is lately?”

  “She misses Father.” Henry sighed, not looking at her. “All this talk of fighting makes it worse.”

  “I’m aware of that, I’m not dense,” Helena complained. “Even Lumm is making himself scarce.”

  “Tobias is busy. He doesn’t have time for idle chat.”

  “Why do you always call him by his given name?” Helena asked, her head tilted to one side.

  Henry shrugged. “He calls me Henry, so I pay him the same compliment.”

  “Exactly. As if it’s necessary to compliment a servant.” She sniffed. “It’s not as if you need a fr
iend, you have plenty of those, with your sunny nature.”

  Henry was about to ask whether she had noticed any of these “friends” coming to call, of late, but restrained himself. The only visitor they had had in the previous month was Samuel Ffoyle.

  “To refer to your first question,” he began. “I have noticed Mother’s bad temper. She’s either raging round the house, or in her chamber, sunk in apathy. I don’t know what to make of her. She ordered me to my room earlier, for no reason at all.”

  “Is that where you’re supposed to be now?” Helena slanted a look at him through long lashes, her pigeon-wing eyes flecked with yellow.

  Her chestnut hair was wet, and hung down her back in waves. Then he remembered she had had to wash it after an incident in the dairy with a cow who had a particularly good aim. The memory made him smile, though he had more sense than to refer to it. “She won’t care where I am,” he snapped. “She spends all her time with Ruth these days.”

  He continued watching Helena from the corner of his eye, surprised at how he had forgotten how good-looking she was - for a sister.

  She didn’t walk; she glided. She had a unique smile that began slowly, like a flower opening up. Then as you watched, it spread over her face, until you realised you were smiling too.

  “You miss her don’t you?” Helena’s voice dropped to a near whisper.

  He shrugged. “How can I miss her, when she’s still here?”

  “Because I do, too.” Her startling grey eyes looked suspiciously moist, and she kept sniffing. He suppressed an impulse to wrap his free arm round her, afraid he might open the floodgates for them both. Instead, he leaned back against the cushions with a sigh.

  Mother had been so unpredictable since their father left. She had abandoned her elaborate gowns, and went around déshabillé in a loose manteau over a plain linen shift. Her physical change upset him every bit as her mental one, though he had no idea what to do about it. She met any display of affection with copious tears and clasping hands, so he tended to avoid her.