Regency Romance Collection

by Bridget Barton

  “Aye, that be the Duke. Give me your horse, lad. I must go and greet him,” he said.

  The man disembarked at once, holding out the reins of his steed. The captain mounted the horse and immediately urged it into a trot towards the western edge of the camp. The war had taken a great toll on his regiment; he had lost four hundred and fifty of the two thousand men he had been assigned with. That was four hundred and fifty families losing a loved one. Some had lost a son, a husband, a brother or father, and yet war went on. Reaching the western edge, he saw a few of his commanders gathered together, staring intently at a cavalry rushing towards them.

  “Ho!” one of them shouted in greeting, seeing the captain approaching, “What did the Lord say, Captain?”

  “Said to get rid of the darn useless commanders that I have,” said the captain with a smile.

  The men let out a chuckle and then turned sombre again; laughing too much in the wake of war was like taunting God and nature. Three men had lost their lives. The soldiers had not much to laugh over. By then, the Duke of Northumberland’s cavalry was upon them. The man in the lead was strikingly handsome; tall, lean, and fit. He had a sword at his hip and wore no armour.

  “Duke Edmund?” asked the captain, dismounting from his horse and approaching the man.

  “Aye,” the man dismounted as well. “You be the good captain of this wretched regiment?”

  “Captain Bard Roper,” he said, extending a hand in greeting. “I am at your service.”

  “That you are,” muttered the Duke, shaking Bard’s hand. “My men will be needing rest and bread and ale. Do you have enough barracks for another two fifty?”

  “Yes, My Lord. In fact, two of them emptied just this morning,” said the captain with a bitter smile.

  “Sorry to hear that, Captain.”

  “So was I. And you, Lord?” asked Bard, “Lord Wellington has requested your presence in his tent immediately. But if you would like it better to …”

  “No, no. Take me to the Lord, Captain,” said the Duke, “I be needing just a water skin.”

  The captain nodded at his commanders and handed the Duke his own waterskin. “If you would follow me, My Lord?” Together, the two men mounted their steeds and trotted off into the depths of the camp.

  Chapter 16

  Earl Harold looked down at the castle of Northumberland. The slanting rays of the setting sun basked the castle in a gold glow. He was standing on a hill two leagues away from the castle. Behind him, his army of five hundred men patiently waited for orders. The men were ready and armoured, carrying bayonets and swords. Northumberland, on the other hand, had but just two hundred soldiers to defend its walls. The rest had followed the Duke into war. Very soon, Northumberland would be his.

  “Soldiers!” he called out from the hill. “The gates of Northumberland stay open till nightfall. We shall take the castle before that. March onwards, men! Kill every man, woman, or child that challenges you, but no harm is to come to those that don’t. We need hostages to keep the castle. Men, charge!”

  The soldiers immediately spurred their horses into a gallop towards the castle. Among chants of Aldrich, they stormed the gates of the castle within minutes. The Earl stayed behind; he was good with a sword, but he was no warrior. He could see the proud banner of his ancient house trailing behind the cavalry. The sounds of battle soon reached his ears. Screams, shouts, the familiar crack of a pellet leaving a bayonet, and the clang of steel on steel. He smiled to himself. The castle and all of its estates would soon be his. Oh, how proud would his forefathers be if they could see the banner of Aldrich fluttering over the castle of Northumberland.

  Night had fallen by the time the battle was over. The Earl entered the castle among cheers and shouts of jubilance from his men. The castle was now his. He rode up to the doors of the castle, where his prisoners kneeled before him. Most of them were chambermaids, stable hands, children, and cooks. But one prize among them was Abigail, the Duchess of the castle. The Earl recognized her immediately, even though he was seeing her for the first time. She was dressed in a simple nightgown. The Earl could see that she was with child. Smiling, he stood over her.

  “Duchess Abigail,” he said in a slick voice, “how nice to finally meet you. I am at your service.” He bowed mockingly and sneered at the girl. Abigail looked up at him with loathing clear on her face.

  “Oh, my apologies,” he said, suddenly, “I haven’t even introduced myself. I am the twenty-second Earl of the great castle of Aldrich, Harold Blakemore. Make sure to remember it, Abigail. It’s a name that shall go down in history.” The Earl paused. “Do you have naught to say to the new master of the castle, woman?” he asked.

  Abigail beckoned at the Earl to lean towards her. When his face was close enough, she spit in it. “Naught to say,” she muttered, lacing each word with hatred.

  Furious, the Earl stood up straight and howled. Wiping the spittle off his face with a handkerchief, he beckoned Samuel forward. “Take the prisoners to the dungeon. But not her,” he said menacingly, pointing a shaking finger towards Abigail. “Her, I want in my chambers. It’s time she learned some respect.”

  In a rage, he stormed off to the master chambers, ignorant to the loud pleas of the captives but entirely aware of Abigail’s silent, dignified defiance. It wasn’t long before there was a knock at the massive, wooden doors, and Abigail was let in, her hands held back by two men. The Earl looked her up and down and smiled.

  “That is no way to treat a Duchess,” he said to the men holding Abigail. “Let her go and leave us.” The men immediately released the girl and backed out the door, leaving Abigail to stand there with a curt expression, rubbing her wrists.

  “Have a seat, Duchess,” said the Earl, beckoning to a chair. Hesitantly, Abigail sat down. “Why such hatred, My Lady? Why such defiance and revolt?” he asked in a slick voice.

  “You attack my estate,” she said in a composed tone, “you take me and my subjects captives. Do I not have the right to express my hatred, My Lord?”

  “Ah, but hate is a big word, my dear,” said the Earl. “Would you hate the person who you lost to in a game of cards or maybe chess, Abigail?”

  “Illegal occupation can hardly be compared to a game, My Lord,” she said, a furious look on her face.

  “No, but my dear Abigail, it is a game.” The Earl smiled again, baring his pearly white teeth. “A game that your Lord husband started. I have won that game, my dear. For that, I hardly deserve hatred. Appreciation would be more appropriate, would you not say?”

  “If it is but a game to you, My Lord,” said Abigail through gritted teeth, “your victory is merely temporary. You will lose. The Crown will not stand for this treachery. You will surely be arrested. Sentenced to a life of imprisonment, if not worse. You may have taken the castle, but you surely will not hold it.”

  “You underestimate me, Abigail,” said the Earl. “I do not wish to hold the castle. I have a better one at Aldrich. I will lose the castle, Abigail. But I have already won.” Abigail pondered over what the Earl had said, confused, when a guard rushed into the room.

  “My Lord,” he panted, “a boy escaped. A messenger boy. He slipped by our grasps and took a horse, My Lord. We tried following him, but we lost him.”

  “Pip,” gasped Abigail. The Earl raised his eyebrows at her and waved an arm.

  “No matter,” he said, “let him go. I have already won. Escort our lady to her chambers. Not the dungeon. But make sure to post a guard around her room at all times.”

  Chapter 17

  Night had fallen over the city of London when Tobias was finally granted an audience with Lord Walder at the palace of Westminster. He had been waiting for hours on end in the palace’s lobby. When he had finally been escorted to the Lord’s chambers, the meeting was curt and short. He had expressed his condolences to the Lord on his own behalf as well as on behalf of the Duke. The Lord had accepted them, but even before Tobias had had the chance of expressing his doubts behind the rea
son of the death of Lord Stokeworth, Lord Walder had dismissed him, citing the reason to be nothing more than a sickness of the heart.

  Tobias stood outside the doors of the Lord’s chambers, racking his brains over what had just happened, wondering whether his trip to London had been in vain when he noticed a boy of not more than thirteen years staring at him from down the corridor. With a jolt, he recognised who it was; Lord Stokeworth’s own messenger boy, Will Turner. The boy looked scared as he beckoned at Tobias to follow him. He then walked into a room. Hesitantly, Tobias followed. Entering the room, he turned around to face the boy.

  “You be Will Turner, Lord Stokeworth’s messenger boy?”

  “Aye,” said the boy, “That be me.”

  “What is it, my boy?” asked Tobias in a whisper, “Do you know something?”

  “Aye. I think I do, sir,” said the boy, “but I fear for my life.”

  “Ye has nothing to fear, boy,” said Tobias, leaning towards him. “I swear on my honour, no harm shall come to you. Tell me what you know.”

  “Sir, I know nothing,” began the boy hesitantly, “’tis only what I saw and deduced. But my good Lord Stokeworth had no disease of the heart, My Lord. ’Tis my belief poison took him. He was given a bottle of wine. A gift. He died after drinking it. I speculated, good sir and gave the wine to a kitchen rat. It died, writhing, within seconds, good sir. Within seconds. My good master was poisoned, sir, poisoned!” The boy started weeping.

  Tobias held the boy by the shoulders, “Have ye told anyone about this, boy?”

  “Aye,” said the boy in tears, “The Lord Walder.” But he threatened me, sir. He said he would have my head if I repeated this to anyone.”

  “The wine, my boy, who gave it to the Lord?” asked Tobias, knowing very well what the answer was.

  “The Earl of Aldrich, Lord Harold Blakemore,” said the boy, looking up at Tobias with hatred in his eyes.

  An hour later, Tobias rode for Northumberland as fast as his steed could carry him. He had convinced the boy to say naught of what he knew and had left for Northumberland immediately after. He feared for the castle. The Earl Harold would go to any means to get his way. Tobias had left the castle undefended, as had the Duke. He feared that the Earl would do something rash; such a man was capable of anything and everything. Suddenly, Tobias saw the silhouette of a lone rider under the moonlight, rushing towards London almost as fast as he was rushing to Northumberland. Feeling a sudden paranoia wash over him, Tobias upholstered his pistol. When the rider was close enough, Tobias suddenly recognised him.

  “Pip!” he called. The rider immediately pulled on the reins of the horse, kicking up dust as the horse halted suddenly.

  “Mr Tobias!” exclaimed Pip from atop the horse.

  “What is it Pip?” asked Tobias, “What has you riding like a madman?”

  “I just got away, Mr Tobias,” panted Pip. “The castle, Mr Tobias. The castle has been overrun by one Earl of Aldrich, Mr Tobias! I was rushing to London to plead for assistance from the Crown.”

  Dread filled Tobias as he heard the boy’s words. “The Crown doesn’t exist, Pip,” he said solemnly, “’Tis naught but a bunch of Lords who have sold their souls to the Devil running the Kingdom now. There is no help in London, my boy. We must ride to the channel.”

  Chapter 18

  Worry and dread engulfed Abigail’s mind as she sat, staring at the moon from the window of one of the guest chambers of Northumberland. The Earl’s words, as well as his confidence, haunted her. Surely he would not come out a winner from this. He would be prosecuted for breaking the Crown’s law. I have already won. The Earl’s voice echoed inside her head. Abigail suddenly felt sick to her core. The stress over what had happened, as well as the pregnancy, had left her perpetually weak and tired. She grunted, clutching her chest. If only she could have one of Nurse Daisy’s tonics. But alas, Nurse Daisy was a prisoner now. In fact, she wasn’t any better. Just then, one of the Earl’s guards barged in.

  “Come with me,” he grunted.

  “Why?” she asked, annoyed that the man had forgone all courtesy and hadn’t even knocked.

  “You do not need to know why, wench,” growled the guard, “on your feet, now.”

  Knowing well enough how pointless it was to resist, Abigail got to her feet and followed the man out the door. She wondered what the Earl would want from her as they approached the master chambers. The guard, however, kept walking towards the staircase.

  “Where are we headed?” she asked the man.

  “I say this for the last time, wench,” said the man without turning around, “you do not need to know. Now hold your tongue and follow me.”

  Abigail kept walking behind the man as he led her through the foyer and out the doors of the castle. Walking into the courtyard, an odd sight greeted her. All the people of Northumberland stood in a circle, looking on at something. Dread filled the air as people turned away or looked down, not being able to bear what was happening. Worried, Abigail darted past her guard and rushed forward.

  “My Lady!” cried the stable master when he saw her, “Help him, My Lady, help him!”

  “Quiet down you,” said a guard, hitting the man in the stomach with the hilt of his dagger.

  By then, all eyes were on Abigail. The people fell away from one side of the circle so she could see what was happening. In the centre stood Harold Blakemore, with a cruel smile playing on his lips, holding a fiery torch. At his feet knelt Pip’s father, looking defiantly up at the Earl, a belligerent look on his face. Abigail rushed forward towards the pair of men.

  “Ah, Duchess,” drawled the Earl, looking at her. “I thought you might want to bear witness to this.”

  “Bear witness to what?” she asked.

  “To justice,” said the Earl with a horrible smile.

  “I’m afraid I do not understand,” she said as the people behind her wailed with despair.

  “Allow me to explain, My Lady,” said the Earl. “You see this man is the father of a rogue and a thief. He is the father of one called Pip.” He added stress to the name, almost spitting it. “You see,” he continued, “that Pip is guilty of stealing a horse from this castle and running off. What do we call a captive that runs off, my dear Duchess? We call him a rogue prisoner. He must be punished. However, I fear I do not wish to invest any resources in tracking down the boy when I have his father right here. So I have decided to execute him.” He smiled as the people of Northumberland cried in protest.

  “No, you mustn’t,” whispered Abigail in a voice filled with dread and despair.

  “I’m afraid I must, My Lady. For justice.”

  “That be no justice,” Abigail burst out. “This man is innocent!”

  Pip’s father turned to face Abigail. With a determined expression, he said, “No need to belittle yourself by responding to this filth’s insolence, milady. All men must die.”

  If the man’s words bothered the Earl, he refused to show it. His smile widened even more as he said, “Ah, a brave one. Pity. I rather enjoy the begging and the pleading that usually follows a death sentence.” He beckoned to a guard who walked forward, carrying a large axe. The man took position as Pip’s father lowered his head, exposing the back of his neck.

  “What will I say to Pip?” Abigail shouted. “How will I answer for this?”

  “Tell him I love him. And tell him that I died with honour.”

  “No!” screamed Abigail as the courtyard filled with wails and calls of protest and one final thud, which left everyone silent.

  Chapter 19

  Captain Bard Roper was woken up by a loud commotion outside his tent. Startled, he immediately loaded a musket and marched out, fearing the worst. The moon was bright in the late hours of the night, but Bard grabbed a torch from the nearest holster on a wooden pole. He could hear shouts from the western edge of the camp. Surely the French could not have made their way to the back of the camp without anyone being the wiser he wondered as he walked towards the sour
ce of the sound. He was now close enough to comprehend what the voices were saying.

  “You do not understand,” a man shouted, “we must see the Duke Edmund this instant!”

  “You have no business here,” replied the familiar voice of one of his commanders, Smith, “Leave at once or wait till morning. The camp will not be disturbed at this hour.”

  Walking up to his commander, he looked towards the stranger. It was a man, noble by the look of him, on a thoroughbred horse. He seemed unarmed except for a single holstered flintlock pistol at his belt. With him was a young boy, not more than thirteen. He, too, sat atop a horse, looking anxiously from his companion and Commander Smith.