Marigold Chain

by Riley, Stella

  Chloë took a long breath and recovered her composure. It was hard, when one was no silly romantic girl, to accept that one could fall heedlessly in love at first sight. Common sense said that it was quite impossible; it warned that there was no future in it and that epic love stories belonged in poetry.

  It made no difference. The fact remained that she had fallen in love with Alex Deveril at their first meeting and had known it from the second; and that was why she had allowed herself to be rushed into marriage. One might be twenty and practical but there were times, even so, when one’s vision overcame one’s judgement. In the space of a painfully exquisite moment in the frosty moonlight of an Oxford street, she had allowed herself a moment of hopeful indulgence and it had proved too strong a temptation.

  With the morning had come a return to uncompromising reality. He had been drunk, she had been stupid and there was no basis for a relationship between them – now or ever. Furthermore, her feelings for him were unreasoning and she knew it. The only sane course was to terminate their crazy marriage and put aside the knowledge that she’d met the only man she wanted and that he was not for her.

  But the marriage had not been terminated and gradually, over the weeks, had come some of the understanding she had lacked. His brusque, unexpected kindness on the day of Sarah’s wedding when she had deliberately goaded him into losing his temper; the laughter in her sooty kitchen and the necklace at Whitehall which, she had later realised, had been given because he knew she was frightened. He was sometimes intemperate, often utterly provoking and always unpredictable. But he was never truly unkind or mean-spirited. He was like a fascinating puzzle that one could never quite unravel. And though she knew he did not love her and almost certainly never would, she also knew that her heart was given irrevocably – and that he must never know it.

  From across the room, Giles still watched her and thought he understood. For an instant, his nerves felt raw and a blind anger consumed him. Abruptly, he rose from his chair, made an excuse and left swiftly before anyone could question him. There was a limit to his powers of endurance and concealment and he knew that he had reached it.

  Walking to his lodging, he gave careful thought to the situation and, by the time, he entered his rooms, had reached the only possible decision. He’d tried to stay away from Chloë as far as it was possible but it hadn’t done any good. It was time to put real distance between them. An hour later he was riding hard eastwards out of London, having left a brief, untruthful letter of explanation to be delivered to Mr Deveril. At Chatham he changed horses and, obtaining the information he wanted, rode on through the early hours of the morning.

  By six o’clock he was in Canterbury and just before eight he reached Deal. He was only just in time. The Royal James and her squadron were under canvas and preparing to sail. Giles hired a ketch, instructed its owner to signal the flagship and had himself rowed out and taken aboard.

  Having spent his last hours of preparation in the irritating half-expectancy of receiving fresh orders, Rupert was busy and not in the best of humours. He greeted Giles curtly and with some surprise but, having completed a feu de joie of orders, he took him below and announced that he could spare him just ten minutes.

  ‘Two will do,’ responded Mr Beckwith in level tones. ‘I haven’t come to bring you a report. As yet there’s nothing to tell. I’m here because I want you to take me as a super-numerary.’

  ‘I thought,’ said the Prince crisply, ‘that I had made it plain that you could be of more use to me in London.’

  A tinge of colour stained Giles’ cheeks.

  ‘You did, sir. But Alex can handle it – and, if he finds anything, I can always go back. I’m not proposing to join your command permanently. Only for a few weeks.’

  The dark eyes examined him thoughtfully. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ replied Giles concisely, ‘I’m in love with Alex’s wife.’

  His Highness did not appear surprised. ‘And?’

  His attitude threw Mr Beckwith slightly off balance.

  ‘And what?’

  The Prince made a gesture of impatience.

  ‘I’m presuming there must be more to it than that,’ he said, ‘because you already knew this when I saw you last month, didn’t you?’

  Giles drew off his gloves and turned them over and over in his hands.

  ‘Yes. You’re right, of course. The difference is that a month ago, I didn’t know she cared for Alex – and now I do.’

  ‘I see. And Alex?’

  Mr Beckwith shook his head and, tossing his gloves on to a table, turned to look out across the Downs.

  ‘If he felt anything for her, he would see it – just as I have. But he doesn’t. Last night, quite by accident, she saw him at his best but that’s a rare occurrence these days. Unless something changes and Alex starts to appreciate what he has, Chloë’s going to spend her life hoping for something that will never happen. And I don’t want to watch it.’

  ‘Are you saying,’ asked Rupert, ‘that you would be happier if you knew you had no hope?’

  Giles turned round and his eyes were bleak.

  ‘I’ve none anyway. Alex is my friend.’

  The Prince stared back for a moment, a wry smile touching the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Quite,’ he said at length. ‘It’s an impossible position – and by no means as unique as you may think. If it’s any comfort, you may be assured of my sympathy.’

  Somewhere in Giles’ tired brain recollection stirred, only to be dismissed.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Then I may stay?’

  Rupert nodded and the smile became a grin.

  ‘Yes. But you’ll have to put up with cramped quarters. I’ve taken on eleven others as well as yourself – and Pepys will probably have a seizure when he finds out.’ He opened the door to go back on deck and then, turning round added quietly, ‘And you were quite right. Her name was Mary.’

  ~ * * * ~

  SIX

  By the time Mr Beckwith joined Prince Rupert and set off southwards to intercept the Duc de Beaufort’s French flotilla, Danny and Freddy had already been assigned, separate and sad, to the fleet. Freddy lay aboard the Portland, while to Danny went the honour of serving under Rear-Admiral Sir John Harman in the Henry.

  On May the thirtieth word reached Whitehall that, contrary to previous tidings, the French were fixed at La Rochelle with every appearance of remaining there. Having already divided the fleet, this was certainly irritating; but when further news told that the Dutch had put to sea on the twenty-ninth with some ninety ships, it was seen to be critical.

  The King ordered the immediate recall of Rupert, and Sir William Coventry swiftly drew up the necessary papers and carried them to the Duke of York for signature. It was close on midnight and the Duke was abed but he dutifully appended his seal and, yawning, added the advice that Albemarle would do well to remove from the Downs to Gunfleet.

  Desirous of despatching the orders by special courier, Coventry set off for Goring House only to find that the Secretary of State, Lord Arlington, was also in bed. Sir William wasted twenty precious minutes attempting to persuade his lordship’s servants to wake him before giving up in furious disgust and having the papers forwarded by express post. By the time they were handed to Rupert on the first of June, he had reached the Isle of Wight.

  Albemarle, meanwhile, had weighed anchor early that morning on a fresh, south-westerly wind and was starting for Gunfleet when his scouts fired a warning that the enemy lay to their leeward, mid-way between Dunkirk and North Foreland. He instantly summoned a Council of War and this proved a sore trial for everyone present. Sir John Harman and many of the other senior commanders expressed grave doubts about the wisdom of giving battle. The wind, they said, though in the right quarter, was too strong and would result in loss of formation and an elevation too acute for the use of their lowest gun-decks; and they were substantially outnumbered. Albemarle brushed their qualms aside and then when, tempers rising they persisted
, came perilously close to openly ascribing their reservations to cowardice. The meeting was concluded in a mood of resentment and rigidly controlled anger.

  At an hour before noon, the fleet formed into line of battle and bore down upon the disarmed and unsuspecting enemy who, caught in the act of weighing anchor, were forced to cut their cables in order to meet the attack. But, as Harman had said, the wind proved a mixed blessing and within minutes the English van had outstripped its centre while the rear became a uselessly straggling muddle. With no attempt to send in fire-ships, they sailed south-east down the Dutch line to engage its rear under Admiral Tromp; only then, with masterly aplomb, de Ruyter brought his van and centre into play.

  The ensuing mêlée lasted for some three hours while the smoke-laden air was rent with cannon-fire and the screams of the wounded until, at about two in the afternoon, Albemarle tacked back to the north-east. This manoeuvre successfully completed their disarray by causing the van and the rear to change places, whilst carrying them directly into the Dutch centre. Not surprisingly, this reversal caused total confusion during which the Henry and the Swiftsure became isolated from the main force.

  A feral gleam lit Harman’s eye as he assimilated his position.

  ‘Crass, bloody stupidity!’ he swore, in what Mr Fawsley could only assume to be a comment on Albemarle’s tactics. And then emitted a stream of orders to minimise their danger.

  This was very great – and not only from the murderous cannon-fire of the Dutch rear-guard. The Swiftsure was already disabled and being boarded from every side and, swallowing a sob of impotent fury, Danny turned away to find a fire-ship blazing down on their port bow.

  He did not stop to think. Even as the grappling-irons seized the Henry’s side, he grabbed a rope and, leaping up on the gunwhale, swung himself aboard the roaring, crackling pyre. Smoke filled his lungs with choking agony and the heat scorched his skin as he sought swiftly for the grapnel bolts; and then, finding them, had to work by touch as his eyes streamed with scalding tears. The first iron fell loose and then the second. It seemed to take a lifetime. He reached the last hook and released it, his chest a raw and aching anguish and his hands burned and blistering.

  He never knew how he got back aboard the Henry. And, lying on the deck in a paroxysm of coughing, he was equally unaware that, approaching on the luff, a second fire-ship had succeeded in setting light to their sails. He recovered in time to watch men frantically hauling down burning canvas; and by then the third fire-ship was on its way. Danny staggered to his feet and glanced at Sir John with a vestige of grim hilarity.

  ‘Christ,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’m sick of this. It’s becoming damned personal!’

  Harman’s reply was to issue a calm order to his master-gunner. A minute later four of their demi-cannon blasted a quartet of thirty-pound shots straight into the belly of the approaching vessel and the Admiral’s mouth exhibited faint signs of satisfaction.

  ‘One to us,’ he said laconically. And then, ‘Evertsen’s running up a signal … well, well – he’s offering us quarter.’ He turned to order the signalling of a refusal. ‘It seems a shame to disappoint him … but it hasn’t come to that yet. Mr Corwen – prepare a full volley and fire when ready.’

  Mr Corwen did so and had the pleasure of seeing his guns cripple the Dutch flagship. Harman, meanwhile, cast an experienced eye over his damaged sails and rigging and regretfully announced that they had no choice but to put into Aldeburgh for repairs.

  *

  Woken at dawn next day by the sound of cannon-fire, Danny took himself off to attend to his duties and glean the latest news. It was around three in the afternoon when he was on the point of informing Harman that their repairs were all but complete that he sighted the Portland limping into harbour. Half an hour later, he and Freddy were eyeing each other over two welcome tankards of ale.

  ‘Well?’ asked Danny. ‘What happened? Your starboard side looks as if someone took it apart then forgot where the pieces went.’

  An expression of disgust crept over Mr Iverson’s amiable countenance.

  ‘We had a run-in with the Guernsey.’

  Danny howled with laughter. ‘You mean it was one of ours?’

  Freddy nodded. ‘Came off all right from the Dutch – and then some silly fellow tacks right into us. Makes you sick.’ He appeared to dwell on this thought and then said, ‘Any word of the Prince?’

  ‘Rupert? No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Lot of talk,’ came the succinct reply.

  ‘What talk?’

  ‘Kind you’d expect,’ said Freddy with unaccustomed cynicism. ‘Got to blame somebody, you know. Not that it makes any difference. Reckon we’ll be in retreat in a couple of hours.’

  Danny tried to work this out and failed. ‘Why?’

  ‘Wind’s dropped. Our pilot says it might come up from the north and Albemarle won’t like that. He’s in a cautious mood today. Could have surrounded ‘em this afternoon but he didn’t. If you ask me, he’s waiting for Rupert.’ He shook his head dubiously. ‘Silly, really – because it stands to reason he ain’t going to be with us before tomorrow. Not without any wind.’

  Draining his mug, Daniel bent a fascinated stare upon his friend.

  ‘I can’t quite believe it,’ he said slowly, ‘but I’m damned if you’re not enjoying yourself.’

  Freddy coloured slightly and grinned. ‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘I am.’

  *

  Re-joining the fleet late that afternoon, Danny swiftly discovered how accurate Freddy’s conjectures had been. No sooner had the Henry come up with the rest of its squadron than word came to make a fighting retreat towards Gunfleet – an operation which was conducted with a panache that went a long way towards restoring Danny’s faith in the Admiral-General.

  The morning of Whit Sunday dawned on a flat calm which lasted till noon when a fresh easterly breeze sprang up and enabled the English to continue their leisurely retreat. And then, at shortly before one, the Henry was hailed by a fishing-trawler with the news that Prince Rupert’s squadron had been sighted off the Goodwin Sands at nine that morning.

  Harman received the tidings with a terse expression of relief and instantly sent Danny to the Royal Charles to tell Albemarle. ‘For we’d best halt this retreat before we leave His Highness stranded on the other side of the enemy.’

  The Duke apparently thought so too for he immediately gave the necessary order. Then, rather to Danny’s surprise, he produced a wallet of letters and requested him to deliver them to Harwich before returning to the Henry.

  ‘And while you are there,’ said the Duke gruffly, ‘I’d be obliged if you will look in on Clerke – Sir William, you know. Poor fellow lost his leg on Friday and he was unconscious when we put him ashore. One of York’s young men who is serving as a volunteer offered to stay with him in case he wakes – but they’re not hopeful.’

  Danny cleared his throat. ‘I’m a little acquainted with Sir William, sir – he’s a friend of my uncle. Is there any message you wished me to give?’

  ‘No – no.’ Albemarle rose from his desk and limped painfully to the window. ‘Damned leg of mine! Same shot that got Willie, y’know.’ He paused, frowning out to sea. ‘Just wanted him to understand I’d be there if I could. No. He knows that. Tell him – tell him to watch out for himself and not to worry. With His Highness come up to us, we’ll have de Ruyter on the run in no time. Just tell him that.’

  By the time Danny returned from Harwich the day’s action was almost over and he found himself with little to do except consider the brief and wholly astonishing suggestions made to him by a man was clearly dying. He wished that Alex or Giles were there to be consulted; but, since they were not, he eventually decided that, for the present, the only useful thing he could do was remain silent.

  Throughout the evening, the men celebrated Rupert’s arrival and tried to forget that the day had seen the loss of their best ship which had unaccountably struck Galloper Shoal and been burned by the Dutch. In
the light of Sir William Clerke’s disclosures, Danny gave a great deal of thought to the fate of the Royal Prince; and found that sleep eluded him.

  By morning the wind had veered back to south south-west and was blowing hard. At eight o’clock the fleet came in sight of the Dutch and formed line of battle; two hours later very little order was left and vessels lay to both windward and leeward side of an enemy whose artillery pounded them not only with all the usual missiles but also with a new device comprising of two smaller cannon-balls linked by a length of chain. It tore through sails, shrouds and rigging, wrapped itself around masts and snapped them and inflicted wounds the like of which Danny had never imagined. And by the time he had seen limbs shot off and bones shattered and a man breathing his last in excruciating agony having been caught in the stomach by this hellish invention, he was too numb even to be sick.

  It went on until five o’clock when Albemarle and Rupert, their flag-ships severely damaged, could no longer maintain any semblance of order and were forced to make for shore. This time Danny did not wonder why de Ruyter neglected to move in for the kill; he was simply grateful for it – and even more so when he realised that the Dutch were apparently sailing for home.

  It was past midnight before he was free to seek out Freddy and bear him off to the deserted deck of the Portland … and even then he stared silently out across the dancing lights of the harbour for a full minute before he spoke.

  ‘Freddy – you said you had a brush with the Guernsey. Do you think … have you any reason to suppose it might not have been an accident?’

  Mr Iverson gaped at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Think, will you? Could it have been deliberate?’

  Freddy thought. ‘Well, it could, I suppose. But it ain’t very likely, is it? Didn’t do any real damage and – ‘

  ‘It put the Portland out of action for nearly twenty-four hours,’ Danny reminded him.