“We took some water into the church for the prisoners.” Bayle blew air between his lips.
“Those soldiers showed some Christian charity at last, did they?” Jane shook her head. “I couldn’t get near them yesterday.”
Helena didn’t like to tell her that Gill and Bayle had had to bribe the soldiers to be allowed in.
“Near five hundred of them in St Mary’s now, Jane,” Gil said. “It looks and smells like Hell itself.” His knapsack landed on the scrubbed table with a thud.
“Weston has become a dreadful place.” Jane turned soulful eyes on Helena. “I wish you could have seen it before all this death and misery came, my dear.”
Gil leaned closer to his wife and whispered something. Jane blanched and looked away, a hand to her mouth as if words were inadequate.
“I think we know someone who could help you.” Gils gruff voice rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest. “He’s one of Churchill’s captains. He’s less eager to torture the sick and dying, unlike some.”
“Who is he?” Bayle asked.
“Doesn’t matter. He’s been charged with listing the names of all those brought in, so he may be able to omit a name or two from the lists.”
“Where do we take him?” Helena asked, dully, her head spinning. “You said we cannot go home. Not to Loxsbeare.”
“Perhaps not. We’ll take him to Ideswell, to Samuel Ffoyle’s. You mother and brother will be there by now.”
Helena nodded, though she barely heard him. Those dreadful words kept repeating inside her head. Edmund is dead. He has not gone to the city for a day to return with Fuller’s earth on his clothes, and ale on his breath. There would be no more teasing, no more secret winks behind her mother’s back; no one to sneak food to her room when she was banished without supper for disrespect. He would never open his arms to enfold her in his strong hug, while she laughed in protest that he was crushing her.
He was gone.
Her throat felt scratchy, and hot tears trickled down her cheeks. She palmed them away with trembling hands.
“Gil says neither Sir Jonathan nor Aaron is on the lists of prisoners, so they haven’t been captured.” The word yet hung between them. “However, there is no way of knowing whether they have been killed in battle, or escaped. Perhaps we’ll find someone who can tell us something.”
Helena jerked up her chin and stared at them. “No!”
Three faces stared back.
“You’ve been very kind to us, Master Fellowes, Mistress. However, I-we-have no right to endanger you further.”
Gil inclined his head with a sad grin. “This is a dangerous place, my dear, whether you are here or not.”
Jane nodded silently beside him.
“You have to live here when we are gone,” Helena persisted, “where so many are being arrested on the flimsiest of excuses.”
“Do you have a plan?” Bayle asked, sceptical. “The roads are going to be filled with soldiers within the next few hours. Our journey here was relatively easy. I doubt we’ll get home again completely unmolested. Especially when…” He left the words unsaid, but Helena was aware they would have been taking a body through hostile countryside. She wasn’t sure what to do next. As for a plan…she didn’t have one.
“I asked some of the men if they had heard of the Woulfes,” Bayle said. “Most knew the name, but not what had happened to them during the battle, or even afterwards.”
“That’s hardly surprising; it must have been chaos out there,” Gil said.
“It’s hopeless isn’t it?” Helena sniffed.
“No one we spoke to saw him fall, so that can only be good news,” Bayle said. “Maybe he - they - got away.”
“Or one or both of them have already been hanged on the roads…like…those…” Her welling tears blurred their faces.
Bayle’s hand came down on her shoulder again. “I doubt that, Helena. That soldier at the inn told me Feversham has had orders to return all the prisoners to their home towns to stand trial. Someone like Sir Jonathan would be a good trophy for them.”
“What do you mean, trophy?” Helena blew her nose on the kerchief Jane handed her.
Bayle exchanged a loaded look with Gil.
“They would want everyone who knew him to know of his…humiliation,” Gil said.
Helena nodded, resigned. Everything they said made sense. If her father and brother had been captured, there was no chance of helping them escape. They would most likely reach Exeter before she did. Her best chance would be to go home and wait for them to be brought in by the militia. If they had got away, they would hardly tell everyone where they were, so again, she would have no option but to wait and see.
“By asking around as to their whereabouts, we not only put their names on the list of rebels, but we put them in greater danger by those who decide it’s worth their while handing them in for a reward.”
“I didn’t think of that,” Helena said. “But couldn’t we..” A shout, followed by the sound of scuffling feet, drew them all to the window.
“They’re marching the prisoners out,” Bayle said.
Helena gripped the sill, staring at the men in their distinctive knee-length scarlet coats with turned-back cuffs faced with sea-green, unfastened due to the hot day. Broad brimmed black hats with green bands worn over sweaty faces, their leather baldricks and swords, and knapsacks completed their get-up.
“Karce’s men,” Gil growled at her side.
The church door opened, and the rebels emerged, squinting against the sudden light. Chained and fettered, the prisoners were manacled in pairs. Some walked, and others shuffled unsteadily. The more badly wounded, dragging bound limbs, encrusted with dried blood, needed support from those beside them.
Soldiers on either side of the column shoved and jostled them to move faster. When one or two lost their footing, they were forced back in line with the butts of muskets.
A crowd of silent villagers gathered at the edge of the green. Those getting too close or staring too hard were pushed back roughly.
Helena could not see their faces. She bit her lip so hard, she tasted blood. Even at that distance, their despair was palpable.
The column set off down the road whence she and Bayle had arrived on that morning, with two carts at the rear carrying the more severely wounded.
Helena turned away. Never had she felt more wretched in her life.
“Poor beggars,” Gil murmured at her shoulder.
* * *
Helena spent a restless night in the room under the eaves, her dreams filled with scenes of her childhood, all of which included her Uncle Edmund. He had always been more like an older brother than an uncle; spoiling her with trinkets and making excuses for the boys when they got into scrapes.
He had left Exeter for London when he was eighteen, to work for Master Samuel Pepys in the Navy Office administration. With a promising career ahead of him, Edmund purchased a house in Greenwich, and married Catherine Jenkins, a London merchant’s daughter. Within two years they had two sons, and life held promise.
However, as philosophers and the dispossessed will testify, when men make plans, God laughs. The plague that struck to London that year killed thousands, and although Edmund escaped contagion, his young wife and their infant boys died within days. Father had told her many times of his frantic ride to London, where he found Edmund standing silent guard over their wrapped corpses, waiting for the death cart to take them to the lime pits.
As a child, Helena would often find her uncle standing morosely on the Weare Cliffs, a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were imagining a happier time; she accepted his need for solitude as a matter of course.
Helena woke as the first fingers of dawn crept across the sky, a smile on her lips as the images of her dream lingered. Then reality hit, and she moaned aloud in grief. She turned puffy eyes into the pillow, her chest constricted with dread that she would have to tell her mother, and when - if - they came home, Aaron and Father too.
; Jane and Gil awaited her in the scullery, their drawn faces showing their night had been no more restful than her own. Refusing their offer of food, she sipped some milk.
“Nathan is waiting for you in the back lane with the cart.” Gil hooked a thumb at the rear door. “The soldier helped us load it earlier.”
Helena nodded, knowing full well what the load he referred to was, dreading the moment when she would have to see for herself.
Jane shed a tear and Gil bowed self-consciously as they took their farewells.
Unable to bear their compassionate kindness a moment longer, Helena hurried out into the lane.
Bayle stood talking to the soldier who had let them into the church the day before. A short plug bayonet hung from a leather baldric, heavily stained with a blackish crust. The ponies nickered at her approach and the soldier’s eyes widened for a second, then he turned away. He gave a sharp nod and disappeared in the direction of the church.
“Can we trust him?” Helena whispered, taking the soldier’s place. “He looked alarmed when he saw me.”
“He has as much to lose as we do.” Bayle circled the cart, checking the traces. “He would rather not have seen you.”
She climbed onto the wooden bench, and glanced into the flatbed. Her eyes instantly clouded with tears.
A length of black cloth hung down over the upright sides of the cart, secured at the corners with a white ribbon fashioned in the shape of a cross. Looped around the sides were roses and sprigs of wildflowers, their subtle scent drifting into the morning air.
This simple and touching display of respect left Helena speechless. Bayle busied himself with their bags, as if to allow her a moment of private grief.
“Shrouding a lie in a truth,” she whispered in a choked voice.
Heaving himself onto the platform, Bayle stared straight ahead and flicked the reins. As the cart lurched forward, Helena turned and waved at the two figures who stood in the shadows at the rear of their house. Would she ever see them again?
The cart rolled through the silent village. A row of gibbets had appeared on the Bridgwater Road overnight, from which swung the corpses of summarily hanged rebels dragged from their hiding places, their captors eager for blood.
Repelled yet fascinated, Helena looked into rows of distorted faces, all frozen in their last attempts to draw breath. Like the corpses hanging from the trees, they followed Bayle and Helena with sightless eyes. She bit her lip, aware the bodies would shortly to turn to a decay the villagers would be forced to endure.
The horses threw up their heads at the swaying limbs and the stench of blood, only settling again when Bayle clicked his tongue and encouraged them gently to keep going.
“Where did you go last night?” Helena asked. “I heard the door catch. I wasn’t asleep.”
He gathered the reins in one hand. “The churchwarden has furnished me with a letter that states we are transporting a Weston man who died of smallpox two days ago.”
Helena nodded, inwardly congratulating him for the foresight she knew was completely beyond her. What would she have done without him?
Chapter 8
Helena spotted the patrol as they topped a small rise. Her heart hammered and she began to feel nauseous, but when she saw there were only two soldiers, she relaxed. “Not much of a patrol,” she sniffed, though her hands felt clammy.
“Don’t be deceived, one musket can kill as well as six,” Bayle mumbled out of the corner of his mouth. The soldiers looked hot and tired, their coats flung open and hats tilted on the back of their head. Two horses had been tethered to a tree at the side of the road, tails lazily flicking away flies, their heads down as if they had been there for a while.
Helena swallowed. These two were professional soldiers. Their long-coats had faded across the shoulders, now reddish-brown from marching long distances in all weathers. Patched in places, the turned-back cuffs were no longer crisp. The younger one had a front tooth missing, while the other sported a cropped ear and two hacked-off fingers.
“Where are ye bound?” the officer snarled.
The soldier raked Helena from head to toe with bloodshot eyes, then moved out of her line of sight to the back of the cart. Her breath hitched as he laid his musket on the ground, then flipped the corner of the covering back.
Beside her, Bayle tensed but his face remained calm. The cart creaked and a bird called from a nearby tree as the first soldier approached Bayle’s side.
“What ye carrying?” the man at the rear asked, flicking a contemptuous hand at the arranged flowers.
Bayle took the churchwardens” letter from his waistcoat, handing it over.
The soldier gave the parchment a contemptuous look, but ignored it.
“He can’t read,” Helena whispered, gripping Bayle’s forearm.
“Whatever it is, we’ll take it,” the officer said, laughing. “The cart and horses too.” He raised his musket slowly, but before he could take aim, Bayle lunged for the soldier, both hands clamped round the man’s throat.
Helena gasped as together, they tumbled onto the road, with Bayle’s full weight on top of the soldier, who had no chance to cry out.
In the instant it took for his companion to register what was happening, without thinking, Helena leapt down from the cart and swept the second musket from the ground.
The soldier froze, both hands held up in surrender, his eyes going from her face to the gun and back again.
Aware she could never work out how to fire the weapon in time, even if it was loaded, anger and desperation gave her strength as she swung it in a wide arc, catching the butt on the side of his head.
The soldier hit the ground with a dull thump, and stayed there.
With no hand on the rein, the startled horses crabbed sideways, the rear wheels threatening to crush Bayle and the soldier beneath him.
Dropping the musket, Helena ran to the front of the cart and grabbed the reins, stilling the horses.
Bayle’s superior weight pinned the officer to the road, though he flailed uselessly with both arms. Bayle scrambled to his knees, pulled his arm back and punched the man squarely in the face. The flailing stopped as the man lost consciousness.
Torn between trying to help and keeping the cart still, Helena could only watch with growing horror as the soldier she had hit stumbled to his feet and pulled a knife from his belt. He must have still been stunned as he swayed, and staggered towards Helena.
She opened her mouth to shout, but just then Bayle yelled, “Helena, Move!”
Instinctively, she threw herself sideways away from the cart, hit the ground and lay still just as a shot echoed across the fields, sending up a flock of crows in a nearby tree, dying away quickly into the afternoon quiet.
She rolled over, in time to see the soldier’s eyes widen in shock. He crumpled to his knees as a crimson bloom spread over the front of his shirt. The knife fell from his hand and with a final grunt, he fell forwards onto the road.
Shaking, Helena scrambled to her feet and staggered toward the cart, grabbing at the reins just as the wheels began to turn again. A groan came from the man on the ground behind them. Helena was about to call out in warning, but in two strides, Bayle raised the musket he had just fired and brought the wooden butt down on the man’s temple with a sickening crack.
Helena thrust her fist into her mouth to muffle a scream, transfixed by the unnatural dent in the man’s skull. She looked down at her skirt, where spots of blood soaked into the fabric.
The metallic tang of blood filled the air. The horses snorted in panic and strained against the reins, taking all Helena’s strength to keep them from bolting. When she could bring herself to look, Bayle was dragging the shot soldier toward a deep ditch at the side of the road.
“There should have been six of them,” Bayle grunted as with a final heave, the body rolled into the ditch, flattening the long grass on the incline.
“Help me,” Bayle instructed, indicating the second man.
Her chest he
aved and she widened her eyes in shock, but bracing herself, she gripped the end of the soldier’s long buff coat and with Bayle bearing most of the weight, they inched toward the ditch.
Helena closed her eyes as the body disappeared over the side, though it made no sound.
“They are visible if one stands here,” Bayle said, “Though I doubt they can be spotted by a casual observer from the road.
“How long before they find them, do you think?” Helena asked.
“The others, if there are any, could be back at any time.” Bayle jerked his head toward the road ahead. “They are always in packs, like dogs.” He collected the other musket and threw both guns in after them.
“What about their horses?” Helena nodded toward the docile animals grazing a few feet away.
“We’ll get rid of anything which marks them out as soldiers” mounts, then turn them out in that field over there.” Bayle nodded to a meadow beyond the hedge.
While Bayle removed the saddles, Helena grabbed the trooper’s hats, knapsacks and cooking utensils, which joined the bodies in the ditch.
By the time she had finished, her chest burned with the effort and the emotional toll of what they had done. What she had done.
The soldier’s knife lay where he had dropped it, but she couldn’t bring herself to return to the ditch, and instead, tucked it into the pocket of her skirt. A skirt with blood on it, which she intended to burn at her first opportunity.
The cart no longer resembled a funeral wagon. The cross and the flowers had been ripped away, leaving the black cloth draped untidily over the body.
She stood transfixed by the shape wrapped tightly in linen; the head, torso and legs clearly defined, like a large doll with no face.
At first, she could not reconcile the lifeless object in the flatbed with the dynamic man she had loved. Then common sense took over, and she knew this was indeed her Uncle Edmund. Her throat closed and tears spilled down her face, leaving her breathless and shaking.
The Rebel’s Daughter Page 9