Henry groaned. “How had they arrived so quickly, Tobias? They must have captured Father.”
“Quiet, Master Henry!” Tobias silenced him with a painful grip on his shoulder.
Samuel took his time to read the document through. His ploy did not work, for the other soldiers had dismounted and stormed the house. The thump of booted feet on floorboards drifted across the yard, accompanied by a man’s shout and a shrill female protest.
Samuel held his hands out in surrender, the paper held aloft as if its contents confused him. “What is the meaning of this? Sir Jonathan is in London, sir, on Court business.”
The officer narrowed his eyes and said something Henry couldn’t hear above the sound of a crash from inside the house. At a shouted order, the remainder of the troop fanned out through the grounds.
“Henry,” Tobias said, his voice low and urgent. “Find somewhere to hide. I think there’s going to be trouble.”
Henry gave a brisk nod, then scampered round the side of the stable toward the dairy and kitchen garden. Both appeared empty, but he had no intention of hiding - not with Mother still in the house. He had to protect her. Listening for the crunch of booted feet, he crept around the fruit bushes in the kitchen garden. Having reached a side-door, he had already dragged it half-open when a rough hand grabbed him by the collar.
“And where might you be goin'?” a rough voice snarled close to his ear.
A fist struck Henry in his lower back, cutting off his response. His lungs emptied, the momentum of the blow sending him barrelling into the wall. He bounced off the stonework and he slid to the ground.
“Hopin' to grab some of the valu'bles wuz we, lad?” The soldier, in a stained leather jerkin and battered hat, stood over him, grinning.
Dazed, Henry staggered to his feet, but the soldier cuffed him again, sending him sprawling. This time, he stayed put, his cheek pressed into the gravel.
The soldier gave an obscene oath Henry only half-understood, and with a throaty laugh, moved away.
When he was certain he had gone, Henry wobbled to his feet, heart thumping. He gave silent thanks to Samuel for insisting he wear groom’s clothes that morning. Had that soldier known who he was, the treatment would have been far worse.
Henry staggered into a rear corridor, where two soldiers had found the meat locker and were tussling over a joint of cooked ham.
Sara, the kitchen maid, stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at them as if they were naughty children.
A third soldier with greasy hair hanging in rats-tails raked Henry with speculative eyes, which dulled when he saw nothing to interest him. With a contemptuous snarl, he gestured Henry away.
Henry turned and fled before the man changed his mind. Jumping at every sound, he crept along the corridor, peering into each room as he passed. They all stood empty, the floors strewn with items emptied from drawers and chests.
When he reached the main hall, a sound from above brought his gaze up to where a soldier descended the stairs. His arms were full of linens and what appeared to be a tapestry that used to be hanging in one of the bedrooms.
Betty Humbold followed behind. Showing no more fear than Sara had, she hurled insults and muttered curses, all of which the soldier ignored.
He grinned evilly over his shoulder as he gained the front door, leaving Betty to hurl frustrated abuse from the newel post.
Where was Mother?
Hearing the stable door flung back hard on its hinges, Henry made for the front door, only to be dragged backward by his collar.
“What are you doing here, Master?” Lumm snarled.
“The horses!” Henry waved in the direction of the yard.
“It’s too late. There’s nothing you can do.” Lumm tightened his grip on Hendry’s coat.
Soldiers led the last of the Loxsbeare stable away; trotting three chestnut geldings toward the gates on leading reins.
The sight of the fourth made Hendry’s heart contract.
Verity was hauled out into the sunlight, ears flattened and eyes rolling in fear at the unfamiliar hands.
“Don’t pull her, she has a soft mouth,” Henry moaned.
Behind him, Lumm made sympathetic murmurings, but his hold on Hendry’s collar stayed firm.
“One of those geldings was to be mine,” Henry said, the closest he had come to rage since the soldiers had invaded the house.
Two uniformed men in the courtyard fought over a turkey rug on the ground. One drew his sword, but a third soldier intervened and separated them, ordering the pair away.
Henry cursed them under his breath, and Lumm leaned down to whisper. “A pile of fine bed linens, a silver candlestick, and a whole ham, are real treasures to them. In all their lives they would never own such luxuries.” He reached into a pocket and brought out a kerchief.
Henry stared at it, uncomprehending.
“You’re bleeding.” Lumm pressed the kerchief into his hand, pointing at Hendry’s forehead.
Henry dabbed at his temple, frowning at the unexpectedly large red stain left on the kerchief.
The officer with the scar was nowhere in sight. His second-in-command and the magistrate remained in the courtyard, idly watching the rest of the troops carry more portable goods out of the house. Then came a curt order came from somewhere, and the troopers re-mounted their horses, with bulkier packs than when they arrived.
Samuel came through the front door, flinging his head back toward the courtyard. “They have my ponies.” He looked accusingly at Lumm, who shrugged.
“They must have found the cart.”
Hendry’s gaze lifted to the landing, where the officer with the scar stood; his arms full of plate and a bed hanging flung over one shoulder.
Lady Elizabeth followed closely behind, her face a mask of anger. “Stop at once, you ill-bred thief!” she demanded, following him onto the half-landing, her eyes ablaze with ire. Heedless of any threat, she placed herself in front of the officer, who sneered and shouldered her away.
She lurched against a post and swayed, but remained on her feet. The officer turned and halted, as if noticing her for the first time. His chin jutted forward, like a fox spotting its prey. He dropped the bed hanging, and with his free hand, groped for her throat.
She gave a gasp as her sapphire pendant came away, reached out a hand to reclaim it, one foot hovering above the top step. Her position was already precarious, and with her equilibrium gone, she lurched forward and toppled down the flight of stairs with a startled cry.
As she fell, her head struck the wall and her body slammed headlong onto the floor at the bottom of the stairs.
“Mother!” Henry froze for long seconds, then galvanised into movement, yanked out of Lummis grasp and threw himself forward. He ran full pelt across the hall, sliding the last few feet on his knees.
She lay eerily still, her pale curls fanned out around her head, her face serene as if in sleep.
Henry lifted her head onto his knees with shaking hands, stroked her hair. “Mother! Mother? Can you hear me?”
A trickle of viscous, almost-black blood slid from her ear down her jaw. Alarmed, Henry stared at it, his stomach churning.
“Fetch a chirurgeon!” he screamed, stroking the pale curls away from her face. “I need a cloth and water too.” Mother wouldn’t like to get blood in her hair.
Tobias reached past Samuel and pressed his fingers gently against Lady Elizabeth’s throat.
Henry stared at him, uncomprehending. “She’s hurt, Master Ffoyle,” he sobbed. When Samuel remained still, his gaze shifted to Tobias. He would know what to do.
Tobias glanced up at the older man and gave a slow shake of his head.
The soldier halted on the stairs above them. Watching.
Samuel gave a muttered oath, then made to climb the stairs, but Lumm wrapped both arms around him and held on. “No, Master Ffoyle,” he said, grunting with the effort. “They’ll hang you.”
Samuel continued to glare at the soldier, fists cl
enched and his mouth working, but he did not move. Then he heaved a long sigh, and relaxed against Lumm, who stepped back and returned to Hendry’s side.
The soldier’s smirk slid off his face, and his boots slammed into each step on the way down, the sapphire necklace dangling loosely from his fingers. His back to the wall, he skirted the body, then loped through the door.
“Come away, Master Henry.” Lumm tugged at Hendry’s arm.
“What do you mean?” Henry split a look between them. “Help me get her to her chamber. Someone has to fetch the chirurgeon!”
Henry held Lummis gaze for long seconds until he understood. “No!” he whispered, then more fiercely. “No!”
Betty Humbold appeared from the kitchens, her thick brows pulled together in a deep frown. She dropped to her knees beside her mistress, her hands pressed to her mouth and keening in a monotone, as fat tears poured down her face.
Lumm encircled Henry with both arms and hauled him upright.
“Let go of me, Tobias.” Henry struggled but he was no match for the older man. “I want to stay with her.”
“Henry, Listen,” Samuel murmured. “We cannot leave her here.”
Henry stopped fighting and allowed Tobias to guide him to the bottom of the staircase. He slumped onto the bottom step, his hands held limp between his knees and head down. Tobias bound Lady Elizabeth’s body in the discarded hanging, and between them, they carried her outside.
Betty tried to wrap an arm round him, but Henry jerked away. The last thing he wanted now was comfort. He had let them kill his mother.
How had it happened so quickly? What was he going to say to his father when he came home?
Bile rose into Hendry’s throat. His stomach heaved and tears dripped onto his clasped hands as he murmured over and over in the empty hall, “Mother. Helena.”
* * *
Helena bolted upright in the narrow bed, startled at the sight of the landlady’s pudgy face leaning over her, thick lips curled in a mocking grin.
“Your ladyship’s bath awaits.” She dumped a bucket of hot water unceremoniously on the floor.
Helena rolled her eyes as the door clicked shut. At least now she could rinse her hair and scrub road dust from her gritty skin. The water cooled quickly, but at least it was enough. However, being accustomed to having Chloe standing by to deal with unreachable fastenings, the effort required to dress herself was more complicated.
Pulling the draw cords on her shift was easy enough, but attaching the bodice to her skirt proved frustratingly difficult. She gave her discarded gown a shake, bundled it into her pack, and went downstairs.
She found Bayle in the dining hall, a large breakfast spread before him.
“The woman who brought the water was positively insulting,” Helena complained, sliding onto the bench beside him. She helped herself to eggs and pork from a platter on the table. “She barged into the room without knocking and - what are you grinning at?” She frowned, a chunk of buttered bread halfway to her mouth.
Bayle shook his head once and turned back to his plate, smiling.
Their host made a show of hospitality, sauntering over to their table to enquire if they had spent a comfortable night. Helena suppressed a shudder, repelled by the falsely ingratiating set of his bloated features and his enormous black-nailed hands.
“Aye,” the man said. “We’ve 'ad troopers in and out of this place since yest'dy morning.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Pretty angry they are too, with all them rebels loose hereabouts.”
Maybe Helena imagined it, but he spoke the word “rebel” with contempt.
Bayle forked food steadily into his mouth, saying nothing.
“Caught plenty of the poor devils too.” Undeterred the landlord chattered on. “Hanged some of “em on the road.”
Then he asked the question Helena expected since she had approached their table. “Where does your journey take you when you leave us this fine morning, good sir?”
“We’re bound for Bristol.” Bayle lowered his tankard. “Though have no wish to cross paths with angry soldiers or rebels. Perhaps you could you offer me some advice?”
The landlord shrugged. “There be soldiers on all roads leading east. There’s no avoiding “em.” He narrowed his eyes at Bayle, then uttered a surly good day and moved on.
“We’d better be on our way,” Bayle murmured. “Get your things and meet me outside in a few moments.”
Her appetite gone, Helena scampered up to her room where she jammed her meagre belongings into her bag and clattered down again, hoping she wouldn’t meet the landlord on her way out. Thankfully, she reached the road outside unseen, where she shuffled her feet in impatience, willing Bayle to appear.
When the cart rounded the corner and came to a halt beside her, she exhaled in a relieved sigh and clambered into her seat.
“Do you think the landlord suspected why we are here?” she asked once they were out on the road again.
“It cost me more than the price of our breakfast to ensure he did not.” Bayle cocked his head at the receding inn. “He’s making a tidy profit keeping his guests” business private.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our host is duty bound to report the names of all strangers and suspicious persons staying at The Dove to the militia. He would only refrain from this if sufficiently recompensed beforehand.”
Helena’s jaw slackened in shock.
Grinning, he gave a dismissive shrug. “He might be a rogue, but his lax morals served us well. There are those who suffer and die in times like these, and those like our landlord who use them to line their pockets. “Tis the way of the world.”
Helena was about to voice her outrage at injustice in all its forms, when he waved her off. “Keep a look out for troopers. There’ll be patrols on all the roads soon.”
Outside Middlezoy, Bayle’s warning proved accurate. Troopers hammered on doors and pounded through houses, thrusting aside anyone brave enough to disobey.
For no greater sin than not responding fast enough to a shouted command, men and boys alike were forced to endure cuffs and insults. Those who dared answer back received hefty whacks across shoulders with the flats of swords.
A soldier insulted a local girl with rough handling, ripping her clothes. A man, Helena presumed to be the girl’s father, rushed forward to defend her and received a lash of the soldier’s whip across his face. The man fell to the ground, bleeding, and his persecutor delivered a vicious kick to his face.
Helena stood up in the cart about to protest, when Bayle’s hand clamped onto her arm, hauling her down again. “Don’t react,” he whispered, flicking the reins to urge the horses on past.
“What’s happening, Bayle?” Helena’s voice dropped to a sob. “These people aren’t rebels, they’re villagers. They offer no threat.”
“They hate us, they hate us all, Helena,” he said. “In their eyes, the West Country must pay for its betrayal. Few armies are merciful in victory. It is often too hard won. They’re savage because they can be. There’s no fairness to it.”
Helena had never measured her courage before, ashamed at the cowardice that burned in her. She may not condone those soldier’s actions, but she didn’t accept them, either.
She had left Loxsbeare full of arrogance, determined to find her father and brother at all costs. Now she was laying herself open to possible arrest, perhaps even a beating, or worse. Bayle would be helpless if they turned their attentions to her. Enlightenment had come too late. Turning back was almost as dangerous as pressing on.
* * *
The horses plodded through rutted roads rapidly drying out from the recent heavy rains, into flat, open countryside.
“Where are we?” Helena asked, impatient, though they had only gone a couple of miles.
“Up the road there is Weston Zoyland, where my aunt and uncle live.” Bayle indicated a clump of trees about a mile ahead, beyond which stood a cluster of rooftops on a rise.
“What are
they like?” Surprised, Helena studied his profile. It had never occurred to her Bayle had a family.
“That’s a strange question.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” She smiled. “Would they be able to tell us anything?”
“I know no more than you do.” He sounded weary. “But it’s somewhere to begin, and the best lie to tell is one wrapped in truth.”
Confused by this gem she did not understand, Helena fell silent as they entered the well-kept village, its substantial stone houses clustered round a church with a square spire and a pleasant green.
“St Mary’s,” Bayle cocked his chin at the church. Before Helena could turn her head to look, he hauled the hood of her cloak over her head, pulling her into his side and held her there, her protest muffled in the stifling fabric.
The horses snorted and struggled between the traces, their swaying rears all she could see through the tiny gap left round her eyes.
“Get on there, go.” Bayle cracked the reins, shouting. The horses whickered and sprang forward.
After a short but jolting sprint, he released her.
Helena emerged spluttering. “Why did you do that?” she demanded. “I almost suffocated under there. And what is that dreadful smell?” She twisted round to look behind her.
“Don’t look,” Bayle snapped. Too late.
At first sight, she thought four men sat in a tree, then reality became clear. Metal chains were looped about their necks and torsos, their hands tied behind their backs; faces frozen in grotesque parodies of human expression, which showed their deaths had been neither quick nor easy.
Helena choked back a scream, clamping her eyes tight shut to block out the terrible sight, but the image was seared behind her eyelids. “Is it? Are they…”
“No,” Bayle’s low whisper reassured her. “It isn’t them.”
Hot tears of relief trickled down her cheeks, which turned to pity for the poor wretches who had died so horribly. She kept her gaze fixed on the churchyard, its beauty marred by groups of unkempt soldiers languishing against gravestones, while others trampled the grass.
The Rebel’s Daughter Page 7