The Smallest Man

by Frances Quinn

  ‘What did you want?’ I asked.

  ‘My father let me go to lessons, after that. That’s why I did it, to show him it wasn’t a waste for a girl.’ She narrowed her eyes at me. ‘I suppose you thought I meant a new dress. Or a pair of satin slippers.’

  ‘No, I thought probably a kitten with a pretty ribbon round its neck.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Very funny. So, have you got brothers, Nat? Or sisters?’

  I found myself telling her about Sam and Annie, then Henry joined in with a story about his brother getting his head caught down a rabbit hole and, all in all, the miles passed quickly that morning. And I had to admit, I didn’t see her do anything that you could describe as flirting – no doe-eyed looks, no secret smiles, and when Henry commented that green eyes had always been his favourite, she told him tartly that green eyes were no better or worse for seeing with than any other kind, and since she didn’t need them for anything else, their colour made no difference to her.

  She didn’t fool me – she’d fallen for him, like all the others. But to her credit, she didn’t make it obvious, and before long, I became as comfortable with the two of them as I’d once been with Henry alone, and it was hard to remember a time when Arabella hadn’t ridden between us every day, regaling us with anecdotes about the unfortunate Matt and Ed, or setting us tests on Latin, or Greek, or mathematics, to prove a theory she had that girls, once taught, were cleverer than boys. She beat us nearly every time and I came to feel quite sorry for the hapless brothers, not to mention the tutor.

  And then one day – and I’m well aware you have a knowing smile on your face as you read this – I woke up and realised the first thought in my head was a thought of her. Somewhere between Bridlington and Newark I had fallen in love, and now I started each day looking forward to seeing her face, and went to sleep smiling about a joke we’d shared, or a sarcastic comment she’d made. You saw it coming, I’m sure. But it crept up on me so quietly that I didn’t have a chance to protect myself.

  You’ll be thinking me stupid, and deluded. Let me put you straight: however stupid you think me, I thought myself more so, but I wasn’t deluded. There was no way on earth she would ever look at me, and day after day, I told myself to pull back, to stop hoping for the impossible. But if you’ve ever been in love yourself, you’ll know you might as well tell water to flow upwards.

  * * *

  Sometimes, on the road, she’d go quiet. Henry never seemed to notice, but by then there was no sound I liked better than her voice. I’d glance up and see that same distant look in her eyes she’d had when she was telling us what happened to her mother; she was seeing it all over again. But she didn’t speak about it until one night when we sat round the fire after dinner. Henry was talking about his parents and she asked how long it was since he’d seen them. He was trying to remember, when she said:

  ‘You should have said goodbye to them, properly, before all this started. How are they going to feel if you get killed and you didn’t say goodbye?’

  Henry said he wasn’t planning to be killed, but she wasn’t listening.

  ‘I quarrelled with my mother that day, you know,’ she said. ‘Just before the soldiers came back.’ She laced her fingers together in her lap, and unlaced them again. ‘She said to be careful what I said, because they’d be angry, and I told her she was letting our family name down by bowing and scraping to them. And I said… I said my father would be ashamed if he could see her.’

  She looked down, as though she’d only just noticed what her fingers were doing.

  ‘She told me to go to my chamber, and I was still up there when they got back. Then it all blew up, and we didn’t have a chance to talk again. So she died thinking that’s what I thought of her. And I didn’t even mean it, not really.’

  She thought for a minute, looking out into the twilight. The glow from the fire lit up her shorn red curls, and ice ran down my spine at the thought of that knife at her throat.

  ‘No, that’s a lie,’ she said. ‘I did mean it. I hated seeing their smug faces when she asked what they’d like for dinner, and if the ale was to their liking. But I know she did it to protect us and I wish I’d said so before it was too late. So that’s what I mean – you should have said goodbye properly.’ She turned to me. ‘It’s different for you, obviously.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your family sold you, didn’t they? When you were ten, the queen said – that’s terrible.’

  ‘Why does it make things different for me?’

  ‘Well, they won’t really care if you die, will they? And they don’t deserve for you to bother saying goodbye to them.’

  ‘This is a gloomy subject,’ said Henry. ‘How about we talk about something other than our impending deaths? That white mare of yours – have you ever bred from her?’

  Henry could talk for ever about horses and so could Arabella, but I didn’t join in. I was thinking about what she’d said. Was it true no one in my family would care if I died? I thought of my father, almost twitching in his eagerness to get away and count the money I’d given him. He’d be missing the monthly sums I hadn’t been able to send since the war broke out, but I didn’t think my death would touch him for any other reason. My mother was gone, and Annie was just a baby when I left: I doubted she even had any memory of me.

  But surely Sam hadn’t forgotten me? Not that he wouldn’t have been justified if he had; I’d had no trouble forgetting my promise to find him a place at court. But he wouldn’t, not Sam. I pictured him, telling his curly-haired little girl about the uncle who’d gone to London to live with the queen. I wondered if he’d told her about the day I nearly got my head sliced off in the wheatfield, or the time we’d tried to stretch me and I’d fainted and he’d thought I was dead.

  I thought about Bridlington, and the man with the shell box. Henry might joke that we weren’t planning to die any time soon, but that man hadn’t been planning it either. If it had been my blood turning the snow red that night, Sam would never know that I hadn’t forgotten him, not really.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ said Henry. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I think,’ I said, ‘there’s something I’ve got to do.’

  * * *

  Our next stop was Newark; from there it was only forty miles to Oakham, but forty miles through Parliamentarian territory. And just outside Oakham itself, Major Sarenbrant, headquartered up at the duke’s old house on the hill. The queen didn’t want me to go but she understood why I had to; she had her own brothers and sisters who she might never see again. She offered me a guard of soldiers, but Lord Newcastle pointed out that was asking for trouble. What I needed was a way to slip in and out of the town without attracting attention, and it was Henry who came up with the plan.

  * * *

  ‘How do I look?’ he asked as we got ready to leave, jamming a battered straw hat on his head.

  ‘No worse than usual,’ I said.

  He was wearing a dirty smock and a worn pair of breeches he’d bought from a very surprised farmer on the road to Newark, along with a cart and a load of hay. One of our older horses was hitched to it, her coat rubbed with dust to disguise her quality. Who was going to notice a farmer taking hay to market? And no one would suspect I was hiding in the hay.

  The sun had barely come up, and only the night guards were awake, but just as we were ready to go Arabella came running from the tent she shared with Susan, still in her nightgown, tufts of hair sticking up at the back of her head.

  ‘I didn’t want you to go without saying goodbye,’ she said.

  Henry looked baffled but I understood. She wanted to tell him she loved him, just in case. The stupid idiot couldn’t see it; he had no idea how lucky he was. Trying to ignore the hard clump of jealousy in my stomach, I walked to the front of the cart and pretended to check the horse was properly hitched, humming to myself so I couldn’t hear what they were saying. They didn’t speak for long – Arabella wouldn’t be one for flouncy words – and
after a couple of minutes, she walked round to me.

  ‘Nat,’ she said. ‘I know why you want to go. Probably better than most. But if you changed your mind, no one would blame you. Not even Sam, if he knew.’

  I couldn’t blame her for trying to talk me out of it. I was putting Henry in danger too; of course she wouldn’t want that.

  ‘I didn’t persuade Henry to come,’ I said. ‘He insisted.’

  ‘I know that,’ she said, her brow furrowing into a frown. ‘Anyway… I just wanted to say, be careful.’

  I sat on the edge of the cart as we pulled away. She stood watching, worry clouding her lovely face; she must be wondering if this was the last time she’d ever see Henry. Perhaps she’d even hoped he might declare himself before he went, which he obviously hadn’t. When she disappeared from sight, I dug myself into the hay, lay on my back and closed my eyes. But I still saw her face, and it was many miles before I stopped wondering what it must be like to see a look like that and know it was for you.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  We’d only been travelling a couple of hours when we passed the first patrol. I lay rigid under the straw, hardly daring to breathe. From the moment Henry murmured ‘Soldiers up ahead’, Major Sarenbrant’s threat rang in my ears, and as the hooves of their horses slowed, I was certain we’d been caught. But Henry wished them a cheery good morning, and the horses clip-clopped on, then picked up speed as they passed us.

  By the time we reached Oakham, we’d passed three lots of Parliamentarian soldiers on the road, without attracting any notice, and I’d relaxed enough to make a little tunnel through the straw to see out. The town had hardly changed at all and as we trundled along familiar streets, I was ten again, walking to the bakery, making sure I had a retort ready if I came across Jack Edgecombe and his friends.

  Henry stopped to ask someone where Sam lived. I was pleased to hear it wasn’t at our old house; I didn’t want to see the place without my mother in it, and I definitely didn’t want to run into my father. But I so much wanted to see Sam again. I shouldn’t have left it so long, but now I could make amends.

  * * *

  My brother’s wife turned out to be a plain girl, in every sense of the word. In fact if you wanted someone to demonstrate what plain meant, Sarah would be the one for the job. I don’t mean she was ugly: her features were neat and in proportion, her skin was neither ruddy nor dark and she was neither bony nor overly plump. But there was a fearsome tidiness about the way her mouse-coloured hair was scraped back into a knot, and the look on her face when she opened the door, though not unfriendly, said she wouldn’t be going as far as a smile until she was sure the occasion warranted that sort of display.

  She didn’t see me at first.

  ‘Yes?’ she said to Henry. ‘Can I help you?’ He looked down at me, and she followed his gaze. She looked puzzled for a second, then clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh! Are you… is it… Nat?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry to come unannounced…’ I said, forgetting that everyone in Oakham came unannounced. ‘I was hoping to see Sam.’

  ‘But he’s not here.’

  Of course: Sam would be at work in the fields. He’d hardly be sitting at home in the middle of the morning. She must be thinking I was daft. As she started to say something, a couple of women came round the corner. Sarah stepped back, opening the door.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ she said. ‘Quickly now.’

  The cottage was very like our old one, just the one room, though a little bigger than ours, with a table and two stools, and a pallet neatly tucked against the wall. Perched on one of the stools was a little girl with curly hair, gazing at me with my mother’s brown eyes.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m helping Mama.’

  She pointed to a tangle of yarn in her lap, one end haphazardly wrapped around her right hand, and I remembered all the winter afternoons I’d done the same with my mother.

  ‘She’s not as helpful as she thinks, our Lucy,’ said Sarah, ruffling the little girl’s curls and smiling for the first time. ‘But she does her best.’

  ‘Did you name her after our mother?’ I asked. ‘She looks a lot like her.’

  ‘People often say that, though I never met her so I can’t say. But yes, that’s where we took the name from. It was Sam’s wish, what with her dying just before we met, and I had no complaint with it. It’s a nice enough name, not too fancy.’

  I had the impression ‘not too fancy’ might be the highest form of praise for Sarah. I wondered what she’d have made of me if she’d seen me at court, dressed in velvet and lace.

  The little girl slid down from the stool, carefully placing the yarn on the seat. She looked at me with a little frown creasing her brow.

  ‘How old are you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m twenty-seven,’ I said.

  ‘No you’re not!’

  She giggled, putting her hands in front of her mouth.

  ‘Lucy, this is your uncle Nat,’ said Sarah. ‘Remember, Father told you all about him?’

  Lucy’s eyes widened.

  ‘Father tried to make you big,’ she said. ‘And then you went to live with the queen.’

  Sam hadn’t forgotten me. Suddenly, more than anything, I wanted to see his dear old face.

  ‘So which farm is Sam working on?’ I asked. ‘Is it Whitefields? Or Arrowhill?’

  ‘You can’t see him,’ said Sarah.

  ‘I won’t disturb him while he’s working – I’ll wait till they take a break.’

  ‘You don’t understand. Sam’s not working the land anymore. He’s a soldier.’

  My soft, gentle brother, a soldier? I must have looked as though I hadn’t understood; she repeated it.

  ‘So where is he?’ I looked up at Henry. ‘Just our luck if we’ve come all this way and he’s already at Oxford with the king.’

  Henry gave a little shake of his head. For a second, I still didn’t understand, and then, so slowly I could almost feel wheels turning in my brain, the pieces slotted into place. Rutland was for Parliament.

  ‘He’s fighting on the other side?’

  ‘There’s only one side round here,’ said Sarah. ‘They pressed most of the men in Oakham, not long after it all started.’

  Of course. That was why she’d had hustled us inside when she saw her neighbours coming. People in Oakham knew who I was and they’d know whose side I was on.

  ‘If you’re seen here now, they’ll say Sam’s a spy,’ said Sarah. ‘And you’ll no doubt remember, Sam’s not a quick thinker. If they confuse him with questions, he’ll end up admitting it. And from what I’ve heard of Major Sarenbrant, he’s not one to show mercy to spies.’

  That much I already knew.

  ‘Does he know I’m Sam’s brother?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, there’s hundreds of them quartered up at the big house. Sam’s just a pikeman. I don’t suppose Major Sarenbrant even knows his name.’

  That was something. And I had to keep it that way.

  ‘Will you tell Sam I came?’ I said. ‘And tell him…’

  What could I say? I’m sorry I forgot about you for all these years? Come and see me when we’re back in Whitehall, if you’re in the area? My glance fell on Lucy who, after her initial burst of bravery, was peeping out from behind her mother’s skirt.

  ‘Tell him he has a lovely family. And I hope we’ll see each other again when this is all over.’

  * * *

  After making sure there was no one in the street outside, Henry stuck the battered hat back on his head and I burrowed into the pile of hay. As we rumbled away from the town, I thought about what I’d heard. Sam, a soldier? I pictured him in the stiff leather tunic and metal helmet of a pikeman. I’d never seen pikemen on a battlefield, but I’d watched ours practising, the sharp steel ripping through sacks of sawdust that stood for the bellies of the other side, the men roaring as their blades hit home. I couldn’t imagine Sam doing that, let alone going into battle wi
th the intention of killing. But he wouldn’t have had much choice, any more than the hundreds of men pressed into the king’s army had. And it turned my stomach to think that all the times I’d cheered a victory by our side, I could have been celebrating my own brother’s death, and I’d never even have known.

  * * *

  We turned onto the road to Ashby, where we were to rejoin the queen. Henry wished the driver of another cart good morning, and I watched it pass by from inside my hiding place. Just a simple farmer and a load of hay; the perfect disguise. And it very nearly worked.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  We were a couple of miles out of Oakham when the wheel came off. Our lives at the palace hadn’t furnished either of us with practical skills, and it took us two hours and a great deal of cursing to fix it. When it finally slotted back on, we were so busy congratulating ourselves that we forgot to listen for hooves on the road; by the time we heard the soldiers coming, they were already visible in the distance.

  There were four of them: a routine patrol like the ones we’d seen on the way. Henry shoved me under the hay, and I lay perfectly still as they rode up and clattered to a stop.

  ‘Having trouble?’ said one.

  They didn’t see me. We’ll be on our way again in a minute.

  ‘No, no, just a little problem with the wheel,’ said Henry. ‘It’s fixed now.’

  The cart shifted as he climbed back into the seat.

  ‘Where are you headed?’ said the same voice.

  ‘Just back to my farm.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  Henry didn’t know the area at all. I closed my eyes and prayed he wouldn’t say something daft.