The Rebel’s Daughter

by Anita Seymour

  On her way to the kitchen, she hoped Deb would forgive her for the sub-standard garment when the time came.

  “Wherever the Duke is now, he stands little chance of being king,” Helena heard Bayle say as she entered the room. He looked up and their gazes met for a long second before he turned away. The combined guilt of her mother’s death still hung between them like a specter neither could face. When Bayle was told about her mother’s death, he had shut himself in the stable for two days, refusing to speak to anyone.

  Helena had tried to approach him, but he must have guessed her intentions, and whenever she entered a room where she was told he would be, he always made an excuse to leave.

  “A Captain Morton stopped by yesterday,” Samuel said. “He thinks any rebels who managed to get this far will have gone to ground by now. The militia will be disbanded soon.”

  “Thank the Lord for that,” Meghan muttered. “No more gibbets on the roads.”

  Helena flinched as an image of corpses twisting slowly from a tree in Weston Zoyland floated back into her head.

  “Would you fetch some ale, Chloe?” Susannah instructed, handing pewter cups around the table.

  “I’m a lady’s maid, not a scullery girl,” Chloe snapped, throwing Helena a pleading look.

  “This is a working farm,” Susannah scoffed. “There are no ladies here.” The cup she set before Chloe landed with a thump. “I’ll get the milk, as our visitor seems too proud to soil her hands.” Susannah sniffed as she left the room.

  “Do as she asks, Chloe,” Helena said, pretending not to see the maid’s sullen expression face as she complied, her limp somewhat more exaggerated as she moved away.

  Helena might lack the confidence to stand up for Chloe, but knew exactly how she felt. Helena didn’t belong here, either. But then where did she belong? For the first time in her life, she had no idea what would happen to her tomorrow. Or the next day.

  She and Henry couldn’t stay with the Ffoyles indefinitely. But what were they meant to do until her father and Aaron returned? If they returned.

  Meghan reached across the space between them and, wordlessly, pressed Helena’s hand before rising from her chair with a sharp clap of her hands. “Girls, come and help me lay the table for supper.”

  “May I help you as well?” Helena asked, half-rising.

  Meghan waved her away. “I have strapping girls enough to help me here, and a kitchen full of servants who need no excuses to avoid work.” She turned away with a groan. “Deb! Not three jugs at once, you’ll be bound to break one.”

  The sound of the outer door opening announced the arrival of Elias, who had been absent most of the day. His clothes sported a layer of dust, and he looked sweaty and uncomfortable, a grim expression on his handsome face.

  “Exeter busy?” His father asked, a casual question Elias didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he eased out of his coat with an expressive sigh. He hung his hat on a hook by the door, then turned to face the room. “The militia found Monmouth.”

  An expectant hush fell on the usually noisy kitchen, hands stilled in mid-task and conversations ceased.

  “It’s all here in the newssheet.” He slapped a page onto the kitchen table, which was instantly tussled over by two of his siblings.

  He slid onto the wooden bench beside Helena, his gaze holding hers. “He was found in a ditch, somewhere near Cranbourne Chase.”

  “Was anyone with him?” Helena asked, her fists clenched in her lap as she awaited his answer.

  “A man named Oliver Buyse, but no one else.”

  “I see.” She summoned a weak smile, not knowing whether to feel relieved or sad.

  Elias placed a gentle hand on her arm. “Helena, Monmouth’s been executed. Beheaded. At Westminster Hall three days ago.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “Without a trial?”

  Elias shrugged. “He didn’t need one. The King issued an Act of Attainder against him. He was doomed.”

  Doomed. The word her mother used when she last spoke of her father. Who would tell Henry? He still thought Monmouth was a hero. When he knew he was dead, would he lose all hope for their father too? Would she lose hope herself?

  “So it is over?” Seth asked, his face pale.

  “It was over after the battle at Weston.” Samuel silenced him with a look. “It says here, the King granted Monmouth a final audience,” he read aloud from the newssheet he had wrestled from Seth. “I assume he did so to torment Monmouth, for it’s a privilege usually extended to those about to be pardoned.”

  “How cruel,” Meghan muttered from a stool where she mended a torn petticoat. Her deft fingers pleated the edges so the tear could not be seen.

  Helena gripped the much creased petticoat in her lap. Suddenly her fingers wouldn’t co-operate, so she abandoned it with a sigh.

  “Cruel indeed,” Samuel said, nodding. “It seems Monmouth pleaded for his life and even offered to convert to Catholicism.”

  “Oh. He shouldn’t have done that.” Meghan tutted. “King James would despise him for such weakness.”

  The door latch clacked again, and Henry burst inside from the yard, Robbie and Debs close behind. His face, if not carefree and happy, at least looked healthy from good food and time spent in the sun. His wound had healed well, a yellowish bruise above his eye the only remaining evidence, which Meghan assured him would not leave a scar.

  Rebekah removed a basket of eggs from Debts unsteady hands, handing it to her mother. She bent and whispered something to her sister, at which Debts brown eyes slid to Helena and away again.

  Robbie straddled a stool, one leg bent across the other as he struggled to remove his boots. “Two troopers offered Henry and me five shillings for turning in fugitive rebels.”

  Meghan transferred eggs from Debts basket into an earthenware bowl, pausing only to throw her exuberant son a reproachful look.

  Helena tried to catch Hendry’s eye, but he had already spotted the newssheet.

  “May I see the Gazette, sir?” Henry asked, his hand already reaching for the paper in Samuel’s hand.

  “Samuel.” Meghan’s voice held a warning, while she continued transferring eggs into a bowl.

  “It will do more harm to keep things from him,” Samuel said, handing it over.

  Elias uttered a low groan, and Helena held her breath.

  Hendry’s gaze slid across the page, his enquiring look changing to raw anguish. His mouth worked in silence and he staggered backwards, turned and fled the room, almost colliding with a returning Susannah, a full bucket in her hands.

  “Henry?” Helena called after him, retrieving the newssheet from where he had dropped it, her gaze on the closed door through which he had disappeared.

  “What’s upset Henry?” Susannah asked, her eyes wide.

  “That the Duke is dead, of course. What did you think?” Seth snapped at his sister.

  “Oh no,” Susannah slumped onto the bench opposite. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  While she and Seth squabbled, chided by Meghan, Helena stared at the door through which Henry had disappeared.

  When it was evident he wouldn’t be coming back, she turned back to the newssheet. Turning it over, she gasped as the words jumped off the page, turning her insides to water.

  Jack Ketch had taken several blows at the Duke’s head before throwing down his axe. Forced by an angry crowd to end Monmouth’s misery, he had finished the job with a knife.

  * * *

  Samuel strolled through the stone archway in Broadgate that led to Cathedral Yard, and turned into the entrance to Tom Molds, Exeter’s answer to a Coffee House. “Bad morning, Master Ffoyle?” the proprietor asked, setting the cup of the thick, almost black brew in front of him.

  “An unpleasant business altogether Tom.” Samuel thanked the man with a nod.

  Thirty men had been brought before Judge Jeffreys that morning at the Guildhall, each of the wretched creatures huddled in the dock harangued as if the Judge harboure
d a personal hated for each one.

  Samuel had chosen a seat at the back of the hall, hoping his presence would go unnoticed. The heat and stench of the press of unwashed bodies in the airless building had made the atmosphere almost unbearable. Bending his nose to his sleeve, he gave a quick sniff and grimaced.

  “All condemned?” Tom asked, applying a damp cloth to a nearby table.

  “Aye.” Samuel said, acknowledging Tom’s resigned nod.

  Samuel had not joined the crowd who accompanied the prisoners to the gallows at the Heavitree. He had never regarded the spectacle of dying men the culmination of an entertaining day. Instead, he had made his way to the Guildhall with the intention of slipping into Gandy Street unseen. What happened next was something he didn’t intend to reveal to the gossiping landlord of Tom Mols.

  Before Samuel had reached the door, a warden stepped out of a room in front of him, barring his way. “His Lordship asks if you would spare him a word, Master Ffoyle.” His voice held a sneer, as if he was in possession of superior knowledge he had no intention of sharing.

  Samuel froze, hoping his fear did not show on his face. What would Judge Jeffreys want with him? Did he knew the whereabouts of Sir Jonathan Woulfe and his son?

  Beckoned by bright sunshine from the half open door, Samuel considered making a run for it. A tempting thought, but one he rejected immediately. He was too well-known. Then there were the fates of his own large brood, not to mention Helena and Henry Woulfe.

  “As his Lordship wishes,” Samuel inclined his head, and followed the clerk inside.

  In Molds upper room, Samuel sipped the bitter-sweet brew, re-living that strange interview in every detail.

  His thoughts were still far away, when a booming voice announced the entrance of two men. Lord Miles Blanden and a companion scraped back chairs at the table beyond a wooden screen beside Samuel.

  In order to acknowledge the newcomers, Samuel would have to stand up and move into their line of vision. He decided the effort required more energy than he was willing to expend and instead, reminisced further about his recent talk with Judge Jeffreys.

  Lord Blanden ordered a jug of ale in his coarse, aggressive voice, before resuming his conversation. Apparently overwhelmed, the serving boy spilled ale on the table and received a stream of abuse for his clumsiness.

  Samuel’s mind drifted, until the word “Loxsbeare” came clearly through the screen.

  Alert, Samuel leaned toward the screen to listen.

  “That greedy blackguard Jeffreys has ordered an examination of the property.” Blanden banged his jug on the table in a display of temper.

  “You think he has his eye on it for himself?” his companion suggested.

  “I doubt it. He has a fine manor in Taunton. He sees this only as a profitable exercise.”

  “Your loyalty to the King should be rewarded.” The other man whined, in an obvious effort to be ingratiating.

  “I shall be, with the house and the land,” Blanden said, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Though it will cost me twice what I originally offered.” He gave the harsh, grating laugh of a man unused to controlling his baser instincts in polite company. “And I’ll wager our esteemed Judge keeps part of the money himself when it’s all settled.”

  “Even at that price, it’s still a bargain.” The second man sounded envious.

  “Aye, I know, and soon Loxsbeare will be mine.”

  “Have you heard that the younger Woulfes are still in the district?”

  “I heard.” Blanden gave a derisive snort. “I haven’t seen for myself. I thought they left Exeter when their mother died.”

  “There have been rumors about that too.”

  “What sort of rumors?”

  “That she was murdered by the militia for her jewels.”

  The hairs on Samuel’s neck stood up and he had to force himself not to burst from behind the screen and confront them.

  Blanden sniggered. “Makes no difference to me how it happened. Though they would do well to be out of the district before I take possession of the manor.”

  The men drained the last of their ale and left.

  When Samuel emerged onto the cobbles outside Moll’s, there was no sign of either Blanden or his unknown companion. Tipping an idle link boy with a coin to watch his horse, Samuel retraced his steps and returned to the Guildhall.

  The crowds had dispersed, and the judges long gone, when he located the clerk he had spoken to earlier. This time the man showed more respect, and answered his questions without curiosity, even presented a few documents for Samuel to riffle through.

  What he found there gave him pause for thought on his ride home to Ideswell.

  Chapter 10

  Helena watched as Samuel took a clay pipe from a box on the mantelpiece, then roll it between his fingers without lighting it. She had waited for his return all day, but now he was here, she dreaded hearing what he had to say.

  The family knew where Samuel had gone, and why. As soon as his horse was spotted on the road, they had crowded into the parlour in anticipation.

  “The sentences were harsh,” Samuel began without preamble. “But no less than expected.”

  “Which was…?” Elias asked. Having been refused permission to accompany Samuel to the Guildhall, resentment was visible in his set jaw and narrowed eyes.

  “Sir Jonathan and Aaron Woulfe were on the list of those ordered to account for themselves during the uprising, though they did not appear in court.”

  Helena expelled a breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding.

  “Which means they’re still wanted fugitives?” Henry said.

  “Or dead,” Seth blurted, blushing furiously at his father’s hard glare.

  “Over thirty men were tried at Exeter this morning,” Samuel went on. “Ten received whippings, and seven will be transported. The others…” he broke off and stared at the pipe in his hand, brows knitted.

  “So much misery meted out in one day.” Meghan stabbed her needle into the hem of a gown Deb had torn on a nail.

  “Hundreds of rebels died in an hour and one half on Sedgemoor,” Henry said, his voice hard. “Hundreds more cut down by bullets and plug bayonets as they ran or-”

  “Henry!” Helena snapped, her chin cocked at Deb and Robin, who both stared at him wide-eyed.

  Henry fell silent, fidgeting with the buttons on his vest.

  “What does transported mean, Father?” Rebekah asked, shyly.

  “The condemned,” Samuel began slowly. “Become the property of Queen Mary Beatrice. The master who buys them as indentured labor pays her a price for each man.”

  “What does this master do with them?” Deb asked, frowning.

  “He’s a slave-master, Deb.” Henry pulled hard on a button, which came off in his hand. “He’ll ship them to the plantations in Jamaica and Barbados.”

  Helena gripped her journal in both hands. How had her kind, sweet brother become so bitter? This was so unlike him. He didn’t even seem to care that Deb was near to tears and had to be comforted by Rebekah.

  “How long do they have to stay there?” Susannah asked, looking up as Bayle entered the room. Smiling, she slid along the bench to make room for him.

  Helena gave him an acknowledging nod, which he returned. Aware he had ridden over to Loxsbeare that morning to see Lumm, she resolved not to ask what was happening there. It would hurt too much.

  “At least ten years,” Samuel replied to Susannah’s question. “If they can buy their passage back to England after that time, they can return home.”

  “…although few survive the journey,” Bayle said, looking at Helena.

  “What will happen to the Taunton schoolgirls?” Helena asked. “The ones who presented the Duke with the banner?”

  “They’re to be ransomed back to their parents.” Samuel fiddled with the clay pipe, making no attempt to light a taper or even fill the bowl.

  Meghan sighed. “Not one of them was above ten years old.�
��

  A tremor of unease stiffened her spine. “Did something else happen in Exeter, Master Ffoyle?”

  Samuel sighed. He lay down the pipe and then picked it up again filled it with tobacco . Finally he met her eye. “Benjamin Hobbs was at the Guildhall.”

  “Hobbs?” Henry scowled. “Our groom Hobbs? What was he doing there?”

  “He sought a private audience with Judge Jeffreys when the trials were done.” He plucked a taper from a box by the fire and lit it. “I was called as a witness.” An expectant silence filled the room as he held the flame against the dry leaves until a wisp of smoke curled upwards from the bowl

  “What did he want, Master Ffoyle?” Henry eased forward, his chin jutted.

  Helena crumpled her sewing in both hands; wincing as the needle speared her thumb.

  Rebekah handed her a kerchief, and Helena dabbed at the bead of blood that appeared below her thumbnail.

  Samuel flung the taper into the fire and leaned back. “I was asked to bear witness to the fact Hobbs worked for Sir Jonathan Woulfe, and was in a position to swear that his Master had joined the rebels.”

  “He betrayed us?” Henry spat through gritted teeth, then gasped. “Benjamin saw you at Loxsbeare that day the soldiers came.” Hendry’s voice rose “He knew you helped us!”

  “What did Hobbs want in return for his - information?” Helena asked, her voice icy calm.

  “He demanded a reward, what else?” Samuel shrugged. Henry leapt from his seat and Samuel stilled him with a hand. “Sit down, Henry. The man got nothing. Jeffreys had him thrown out of the Guildhall.”

  “Serve him right. The traitor.” Henry folded his arms, his lips clamped into a thin line.

  Samuel tapped the pipe stem against his lower lip, nodding. “A man like Jeffreys would never grant favours to the Benjamin Hobbs of this world. Knowing that, I refused to give credence to any of his claims, much to Hobbs fury. I advised Jeffreys do the same.”

  “Did he heed you, Father?” Susannah asked. She kept glancing at Bayle and when he turned to look at her, turned away, her face flushed.