by Amy Wolof
So that’s what it’s called, I thought.
“That man you hold captive—not Monmouth, to be sure!—is a fellow loyalist who fought hard by my side. I beg you to release him so I may tend to his wounds.”
The head of the Guard answered sharply.
“How was it that Scott knew him?” he asked.
“Perhaps they were army comrades,” said Aventis, “before the duke turned traitor. But I swear on my honor that, like me, that man is a Catholic, and a fervent supporter of James.”
The redcoat’s face did not soften.
“If you will not take my word,” said Aventis, “I beg you to search his person. You will find proof enough hanging about his neck.”
The redcoat gestured to one of his men, who leapt off his horse and thrust a hand under my coat. It re-emerged holding something shiny and silver: my Crucifix on its chain. Given to me by Aventis when he thought he would die of Plague . . .
“Very well,” said the redcoat, “release him.”
Aventis slipped from his saddle, and, as gently as possible, slid me down my own. We both stood facing Monmouth. My life, quite literally, was in his two chained hands. If he named me a rebel, I was dead—and so was Aventis. But if he kept his own counsel, we could avoid his own fate. I looked at Monmouth’s face. Would he finally do something befitting the son of a king?
The duke did not lower his head as his dark eyes met mine. Even in shepherd’s rags, he somehow still looked noble. At last, after some moments, he clamped shut his jaw and said nothing.
“Come along, Captain Vickers,” Aventis said—to me—carrying me to his horse and lifting me onto the back.
Despite the severity of my wounds, I managed to look back at Monmouth and give him a small nod. This was our fourth meeting so far, and, considering where he was going, likely to be our last.
The Bloody Assizes
When I next awoke, I found myself lying on a rough, itchy surface. Straw! In a daze, I turned my head. I saw that all around me, there were outlines of stalls and sties, providing a home for horses and pigs.
As far as companions, I was alone. My two wounds had been expertly bandaged, though the one in my gut seeped red through its white cloth. Where was Aventis? I wondered. Knowing him as I did, I surmised he’d gone to seek herbs. I waited, unmoving, hearing from outside the incessant quacking of ducks. Quack quack, I thought, shaking in the grip of fever. It was not until the sun set that the barn door opened to admit a figure in black.
“Aventis,” I gasped.
I could not be gladder to see him, though the pain in my gut burned like the Newmarket fire. My forearm, likewise, pricked at me like a crab.
“Do not try to speak,” he said. He took out a heavy bag, spilling from it a hairy-leaved plant replete with purple buds.
“Flowers,” I said with a smile, but Aventis hurled them to the ground. He seemed to be solely concerned with the plant’s short black root.
Unwinding the cloth on my arm, he touched the root to a scar which I saw was long and red.
“What is that?” I groaned.
“Comfrey,” he said. “Good for knitting flesh. Lucky for us, it grows by ditches, so there is no lack of it here.”
Despite the pain and fever, I willed myself to speak.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Taunton.”
I stared.
“You must understand,” said Aventis, “that the road to London was blocked—by the Royal Army. There was naught we could do but backtrack.”
“To where Monmouth had himself crowned,” I mumbled. “Ah!” I clutched my burning stomach.
“That shot was well-aimed,” said Aventis, and I thought he looked grim. “I removed the ball and applied paste of yarrow, but I fear my stiches are not as skilled as yours.”
“You did not spend your youth sewing,” I gasped.
“Please, Margaret, stay still.”
As much as I wanted to, there was something I had to impart.
“Aventis, I . . . Jeffries is dead. He was killed at Sedgemoor.”
He bowed his head.
“I feared it might be so—when I saw you riding his horse.”
Aventis closed his eyes, took up my Crucifix, and muttered a short prayer. He ended with this phrase: “Requiesce in pace, mi amice.”
“Aventis,” I groaned, “I still cannot believe it.”
“It is so very hard,” he said, “to accept the passing of those we love.”
I wiped my eyes with a bandaged arm.
“But to die for a man like Monmouth! A coward and a villain.”
“I suppose that Jeffries saw in him a future hope for England.”
“Bah!” I spit and the action caused me pain. “The captain gave his life and nothing at all has changed.”
“That is often the way,” said Aventis “We must ask ourselves, what would Jeffries want us to do?”
I sighed.
“For us to go on, I s’pose.”
“Quite right,” he answered.
I looked into his face.
“You must be our leader now.”
“I will never leave you or Carnatus.”
“Speaking of which,” I gasped, “where is that popinjay?”
“I assume he kept up his ruse and continued to ride with Monmouth.”
I managed a smile as I imagined Carnatus amusing the duke. Then, my gut assailed me, causing me to cry out. I needed something—anything—to shave the edge off this pain.
“Aventis,” I asked, “do you have wine? Right now, I would take an English vintage.”
With a grin, he removed a leather flash from his coat.
“Here,” he said, and I was not surprised to find a fine Lafite.
“Always the best,” I muttered. “Like you.”
“And you,” he said.
“And Jeffries!”
I raised the flask as high as I could. Aventis seized it and took a mouthful.
“To Captain Charles H. Jeffries,” he said. “He will be remembered forever.”
I tried to curtail my sobs before they overtook me.
“Aventis,” I said, as the wine reached my head and deadened the pain below.
“Hmm?”
“I know this is wicked—a sin—but-but now that Jeffries is gone, can we . . .?”
“Yes,” he said. “I thought of it all this day.”
“Really?” I asked.
“We can be together freely, but first, we must get married.”
I groaned, and not from my wounds.
“Not that again,” I said. “You are still astride that one horse?”
“Yes,” he said, frowning. “Margaret, when you recover, you must retire Megs. The king’s men will not be seeking a woman.”
“You are right,” I said, my eyes closing.
This proved a rare instance when Aventis was mistaken.
As I slowly mended, hiding from all but horses and pigs, Aventis brought me back tidings from the wider world. It seemed that our dour prune—Judge Jeffreys, damn his black soul!— presided both here and at Winchester at trials called “The Bloody Assizes.” Here, he cheerfully sentenced hundreds of rebels to death, and hundreds more to be slaves—in the certain death of Barbados. Aventis reported that his ambitions were realized, for he was now Lord Chief Justice.
One night at the end of August, when Aventis re-entered the barn, I could tell from his face that he was stricken.
“What have you heard?” I asked.
“I can hardly give it credence,” he said, pacing the ground by my straw bale. “Remember Dame Alice Lyle, who I told you was arrested on account of hiding two rebels?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it happens that dear Judge Jeffreys has sentenced her to death. To be . . . to be burned at the stake!”
“But you said she was in her eighties,” I cried, “and knew not whom she sheltered!”
“All true,” said Aventis. “James has refused to grant mercy, but, in light of her rank, will permit a b
eheading.”
I attempted to take this all in.
“Aventis,” I asked, “what sort of world is this?”
“One that is cruel, unjust, and imperfect. All we can do is attempt to be none of the three.”
I nodded, but this did not raise my spirits. What with the death of Jeffries, and this horrid Jeffreys unleashed, I feared remaining in England. If women were now fair prey, I might very well be unmasked.
Dam’d religion! I thought. It just leads to bloodshed, and, on a lesser scale, schisms between regular folk. Still I, raised in the Church, felt a shame as intense any priest’s rebuke. Did not Aventis’s faith make him a better man? Were not the Jesuits raising my child compassionate and kind?
“I do not know,” I said.
“What?” asked Aventis.
He stood over me with arms crossed.
“Why I wrestle with questions best left to the likes of you.”
A Reluctant Envoy
I could stand it no longer.
By the dawn of September, I began to feel that if I heard another sow squeal, I would soon be enjoying a breakfast comprised of bacon and ham! My restlessness seemed to grow in proportion to my strength, so that by the time I was healed, I wanted to burst through that barn door!
Now, I was no master schemer like Jeffries or Aventis, but I slowly evolved a plan that might accomplish two goals: flee England until it was safe and . . . another of greater import.
That is why while Aventis slept, I decided to act.
“Farewell for now,” I whispered, then leaned over and gave him a kiss on his head. “I pray it will not be for long.”
Harnessing my Bay in his stall, I packed some supplies and so rode forth from Somerset. I could not be further from Dover, I thought, unless I were at the Pole. Though at a loss without Aventis, I reckoned the port must be a four-day ride.
I avoided the army as they patrolled their way round Taunton, so I frequently rode through the woods. I did had a scare when, upon fording a stream, I saw a redcoat doing his business.
“Long live King James!” I shouted, and, if I’d had a trumpet, would have blown it like Gideon.
“To be sure,” said the soldier, hastily closing his breeches. He did not seem eager to arrest me as he fastened his buttons.
“Down with the rebels!” I added just for good measure. Before he could question my lack of uniform, I had splashed downstream.
During my eastward ride, whenever I felt lost, I would ease my horse onto the Road to Bath. It was here where I felt most comfortable, but also so alone that I could barely go on. The large shadows of Jeffries, Carnatus, and Aventis trailed me like a whisper. I would rather be haunted by Jeffries’s ghost, I thought, than spend one more day without him.
Since I wished to avoid towns, I slept rough first in West Camel, then at a place called Chicklade. I was nowhere near the sea and that had been deliberate.
When I arrived at the outskirts of London, I felt a definite dread. It would have been easy merely to pass through its streets, but I could not in conscience do so. Dismounting heavily, I
knocked on Jeffries’s door.
“Megs!” cried Moll, delighted at seeing me. She and young Charles ushered me in. As soon as he was able, the latter ran forward to hug me.
“How a care, sir,” I said, “for I have lately been shot. Ease up, I beg you.”
“Mister Megs!” he shouted. “Shot! Why, you are a hero! Was my papa so very brave?”
He looked behind me, but there was no one else there.
“Aventis is the hero,” I said evasively, “for he is the one who healed me.” At last, I met Moll’s eyes. “A moment?” I asked.
I entered the sitting room like one who bore a coffin. Moll ushered Charles out, then motioned for me to sit. As she did the same, I looked down.
“Moll,” I said, “Mrs. Jeffries. You must be strong, for I have grave news to impart.”
“Oh no,” she said, putting her hand to her breast. “Not Charles—”
“Yes.” I nodded. “He died as he had lived, a soldier to the last.”
She let out a shriek, then collapsed on her chair.
“Mama?”
Charles came running back in.
“Young master,” I told him, “you are nearly a man, and must behave like one now. Are you ready?”
He nodded.
“Your papa is not coming home.”
The boy, still dressed like Jeffries, did his best to hold back tears.
“I see you are strong,” I said, “and do your papa proud. He is the greatest of heroes. He fell in a just cause—” I refrained from shaking my head, “—defending church and country.”
The boy blinked, then went up to Moll.
“Do not cry, mama,” he said. “Papa is in Heaven and looks down at us even now.”
She grabbed him and held him close, her body shaking with sobs.
I stood helplessly before them, turning my hat in my hands.
“Aventis and Carnatus live,” I said, “and as long as we three do, you will not lack for anything.”
As Moll nodded, I stared at the back of her cap.
“Jeffries was a true legend,” I said. “He will never die.”
I could see my words brought no comfort—either to her or me—so I resolved to depart.
“I must go,” I said. “If you require something, please let one of us know.”
I gave an unseen bow, then placed on a chair those items I’d taken from Jeffries: his sword, his pistols, his purse bulging with guineas, and, on a high place of honor, his black highwayman’s mask.
Abroad Again
In truth, I did not wish to leave either Moll or London, but I knew I must flee: not only from the king’s men, but from the very real prospect of Aventis hot on my heels.
I set off for south London, climbing its highest point at Shooter’s Hill. Last time I was here, I had been a prisoner of Cromwell with a price on my head. Now, I was wanted again but for fighting a losing battle. Strange world, I thought, when being considered a rebel is worse than being a thief!
I urged my Bay down the hill and continued on Dover Road. It took me a day-and-a-half before sea air greeted my nostrils.
Ah, Dover . . . again. Though I hated the water, I did enjoy the docks bristling with masts; the seawall which protected from a surge of waves. When I spotted the castle perched high on its chalk cliff, I felt no sense of dread, for now, I was no smuggler—merely a common traveler who sought a decent berth.
After placing my horse at a livery, I walked down to the harbor. By far, the finest craft there was one equipped with five sails. As I headed toward her, she grew yet more attractive when I heard the crew conversing in what sounded like Dutch.
Since her gang-board was down, I decided to step on, and soon met an imposing fellow. Unlike the typical Englishman, he wore an enormous hat; cuffs as wide as his leg; and a full, bristling moustache.
“Excuse me, uh . . . sir?” I said.
“Wat wil je?” he asked in annoyance. “Ik heb geen tijd te verliezen.”
“Yes, uh . . . passage? I seek passage to Calais.”
I pointed up to the sails, then mimed the act of leaning into the wind.
I saw his huge moustache curl, for he clearly thought I was daft. I must make him understand, I thought, or I shall soon greet the sea without benefit of a boat!
“Damn,” I muttered, then reached into my pocket for the usual lingua franca. The Dutchman’s eye’s sparkled as he caught sight of my guineas.
“Ja, ja,” he said.
That I could comprehend.
I gave him a short salute, then strolled leeward once we got underway. I saw I was on a merchant ship, based on its sheer size and the lack of cannon. How different this voyage is, I thought, to those I made with Noah! No hard rocking by waves, no black-painted sails, no fear of a roiling storm that could swallow us whole!
As I relished the crisp sea air, I felt almost content, for I had escaped many foes
: James; his men; even Aventis, with his wearying plans to wed. I did feel a rush of remorse at having left him as I did, but, knowing his nature, was sure he would forgive. And if he did not? I shook slightly as I considered this . . .
The advantage of my Dutch ship was that it sailed quickly—leaving me little time to dwell. By the time we docked in Calais, we had left Dover behind a mere two hours ago.
Waving farewell to my hirsute friend, I was the first off the vessel. I headed toward that crumbling pier and then a familiar stables, where I engaged a coach.
“Paris!” I yelled up to the driver.
During this journey, I stayed at ancient villages, but not for long. On my third day of being jolted in that horrible coach, I urged the driver (in my terrible French) to achieve Paris by noon. Happily, he did, even changing our team so we could proceed with fresh horses. On the last leg of our trek, I found the French country as beautiful, the farmhouses as charming, and the wine as luscious as it had been six years before. Yet, despite these distractions, I insisted that we press south, and so we arrived in Lyon.
Even in the early light, I barely noticed the town, for there was just one place that drew me: 29 rue de la Bourse.
I hoped I could recall its general location. Ah! Just up from the river, circumscribed by sloped-roof houses. Avoiding the College’s front, I slipped round to the side and entered the inner courtyard. There, observed by History, Logic, and Morals, I crept across the cross-hatched floor and entered the college proper. I saw that I was alone until a black-clad priest emerged from a center classroom.
“Monsieur,” I began, “Friar Caussin?” I spread my arms as if to ask, “Where is he?”
“Je suis désolé, monsieur,” said the young Jesuit. “Il est mort.”
I did not know many French phrases, but this one, alas, was familiar. I had last heard it when Princess Henrietta died.
"I am sorry,” I said. “He was an excellent man. I shall never forget the kindness he showed my dau—”
The Jesuit looked at me blankly.
“Uh . . . Mademoiselle Frances,” I said, gesturing to little effect. “Frances de Castillo. Is she within?”
The Jesuit nodded, but his face remained blank, so unlike Friar Caussin’s. With our mutual ignorance of each other’s tongue, this could go on forever. Where, I groaned to myself, were Carnatus, Aventis, or Jeffries when I needed them most? Then I realized that Jeffries, poor soul, was somewhere beyond with Caussin. Yet, what, given the circumstance, would he do in my place? He would not kill the priest—that would be bad form. Would he attempt to bribe him? Hmmm . . .