Richard had a new assurance, perhaps coming from the feeling he had Highpoint in his grasp. He was soberly dressed, except for a flamboyant cravat, embroidered in red and gold, the Stonehouse colours. His tightly curled wig was tied in a queue at the back, military style. The jewelled pommel of his Italian rapier caught sparks of light from the sun. Hypnotised by this, I only gradually became aware of a fly crawling across my forehead. When I brushed it away the bearded mercenary’s hand instantly went to his pistol.
‘I could take him,’ murmured Scogman.
‘Don’t be a fool.’
From behind the trees where the mercenaries were playing dice came a shout of protest, followed by jeers and laughter, disturbing a flock of wood pigeons. Richard called sharply for the men to be quiet and turned smartly to leave the court, Luke and the mercenary falling into step with him. The wood pigeons drifted in lazy circles over their heads before settling, one by one.
The sun was at its height. Their feet kicked up small puffs of dust from worn patches as they walked towards us. It should not have worked, but it did. I felt its power, like that of some religious ceremony which you may not understand, or even believe in, but which nevertheless overawes you. I had committed a cardinal sin for which there was no redemption. No matter that Richard saw it as the murder of the King while I saw it as the murder of love; that he saw my name on the King’s death warrant while I saw Anne’s letter: Of all the things you have done this is unforgivable. It was the same thing, for different reasons.
What neither of us bargained for was that love will out even when – or perhaps particularly when – it is too late.
Luke broke from Richard. ‘Father, Father.’ He flung himself at me in a confusion of words and movement. Over the blur I saw Richard standing stock still, the mercenary drawing his pistol, Richard stopping him with a warning gesture but keeping his hand hovering near the pommel of his sword. Luke felt even slighter. They might have given him fresh linen, but they could not remove the stink. My hands tightened round him when I saw a bruise on his forehead.
‘Have they hurt you?’
I could feel the bones in his body as he trembled against me. ‘I was not a good prisoner,’ he said dismissively, with an attempt at his old bravado, but his voice caught. ‘Is it true what he said?’ He looked towards Richard with a shudder. ‘You have reached an agreement?’
‘Yes.’
Inner voice, or inner spirit, whatever it was, seemed to knit the scarred side of his face with the other in one harmonious whole. ‘God be praised! He has answered my prayers. I prayed for you both to be brought back together.’
I held him for a moment longer. ‘Go with Scogman.’
For the first time he seemed to take in the silent, ritual stances of the other three men. ‘Why? What are you going to do?’
‘Have a few words with my father.’
Before he could reply I went towards Richard. He gave me his long, easy-going, affable smile. If the dice had fallen differently we might have at least respected, perhaps even liked, one another. So it must have seemed to Luke, for some of the tension left his face and I saw him go to Scogman as I approached Richard, who ordered the mercenary to keep back.
‘Hello, Father.’
‘Hello, Tom.’
‘That wig suits you.’
He stroked the tight curls. He had always been vain. ‘D’you think so? Worst thing was having all my own hair shaved off.’ He glanced past me and I followed his gaze. Luke was talking excitedly to Scogman. Richard dropped his voice. ‘You will be imprisoned and go on trial. There is nothing I could do about that, even if I wanted to.’ I nodded and smiled, as if he had passed some pleasantry. He stared at me nonplussed, never taking his eyes off me, distrust, I felt, gradually giving way to a grudging admiration.
‘Let’s get on.’
I began to walk towards the house. I cared not a jot for his distrust or his admiration. All I wanted was to keep up the friendly charade until we were beyond the gates where Luke could not see us. Although the mercenary had been told to keep back, as the gates grew nearer he was practically on our heels. From his darting glances about him and the changing rhythm of his steps, I knew what he was thinking: if he’s going to try anything it will be here. Still far enough from the other mercenaries but with the cover of the gates, the small lodge house. I tried to reassure him with inane chat to Richard about the weather, but this only made him increasingly edgy.
It was the fly. Probably it was a different fly, but one always feels that it is the same fly that has marked you out, attracted by the texture of your sweat, your particular odour. It suddenly buzzed, loud and piercing, right in my ear. Automatically I struck out at it. The mercenary grabbed me on one side and Richard on the other. I began to reassure them but the mercenary was taking no chances and twisted my arm behind my back.
‘Father,’ Luke screamed.
It was like a dream in which you fear something dreadful is going to happen but are powerless to move. Luke grabbed Scogman’s sword and ran towards us. In one swift movement the mercenary released me, drew his pistol and clubbed me to the ground. He levelled the pistol at Luke. I tried to grab his leg but got a boot in my face. The explosion deafened me. I could hear nothing, see little through blood coursing from the blow to my forehead. There was a smell of powder. The blur of the mercenary’s boots. He was coming for me again. I rolled away, aiming a blow at his face. There was no face. A sightless eye, almost slipping from its socket, was staring at me. The other side of his face was smashed blood and bone. Sound rushed back with the cry of birds wheeling above me and the clash of swords. I got to my feet. Scogman was lowering the pistol he had fired.
Richard was parrying with his rapier a lunge from Luke. Luke had come to my aid, but it had become personal. It was in the set of his lips, the narrowing of his eyes, the ferocity of his attack, his sideways stance, arm held high and straight, point aimed unerringly at Richard’s face. It was no longer a question of escape, but one of honour; not the fake honour I had put on to free him, but the honour of a gentleman, for whom the loss of it meant life was not worth living. Richard had made a fool of him with the girl he loved. He had borne that, but when Richard had tricked me – as he wrongly saw it – nothing else mattered but this. He meant to kill him.
The mercenaries emerged from behind the trees. One was tossing the dice from hand to hand. At first the ritual power of the duel cast a spell that kept them at a distance. They watched, as I did, hypnotised by the flashing swords, the weave of the men’s bodies and dart of their feet. Then the mercenary with the dice stopped shaking them. He was staring at the dead mercenary at my feet, glancing at a colleague. I picked up the dead mercenary’s pistol and pointed it at them. I could see from the looks on the men’s faces that no one would be the first to move. They knew the odds. They were paid to kill, not to be killed.
I heard the drop of the ball as Scogman reloaded, the click of the dog lock as he covered them, giving me a chance to intervene. There are advantages in not being a gentleman or, at least, only a fake one. I was not bound by their ridiculous games. Cromwell, only half a gentleman himself, hated duellists. One of the reasons why the Royalists lost, he used to say, was because they killed one another.
I moved closer. I brought up my pistol and took aim. For a split second I had a sight on Richard. I was about to fire when Luke lunged in front of him. I lowered the unfamiliar, heavy pistol, my hand trembling. I was soaked in sweat. My eyes were blurred with it and the flash of the swords in the sun. The duel was much more evenly matched than I would ever have imagined. Richard was by far the better swordsman but his reactions had slowed. Luke’s youth and energy made up for his lack of skill. Both men kept the sword points high, parrying thrusts with upward or downward flicks of the guard, each waiting for the opening to turn a parry into a riposte. Luke found it. His sword struck like the dart of a snake’s tongue. Richard fell back. It was my opportunity. I raised the pistol again. I could not do it. Not my
father. Not in cold blood. At the click of the safety catch, Luke looked round. Did I shout a warning? If I did, the words scarcely left my mouth before Richard lunged. Luke never uttered a cry. There was a look of surprise on his face. I ran forward, kicking Richard’s sword from his hand as he fell. I started leading Luke away before he began to stumble.
‘See to him,’ I snapped to the mercenaries, two of whom ran to Richard while I carried Luke to the horses.
At first he did not seem to realise he was hurt. His face was flushed and his eyes bright. ‘I hit him. It was a good strike, was it not, Father?’
‘Yes, yes. Now you must be quiet, Luke.’
The mercenaries must have thought the whole business a curiously English affair. None came after us until Richard sat up, cursing and gesturing violently in our direction. Scogman fired, aiming towards the horses which the mercenaries were untethering. They panicked and scattered. I took off my shirt, ripped off the sleeves, wadded the body, and used the sleeves to knot it tightly into place. Only then did Luke seem to realise how badly he was wounded; even then he stared wonderingly at his bloodsoaked shirt as if it belonged to someone else. I hated moving him but I had no option. The mercenaries were rounding up their horses and Richard was getting to his feet. Scogman took Luke while I mounted.
‘You saw, Scoggy, you saw?’ Luke said.
Luke had never called him Scoggy in his life.
‘It was a good strike. You fought brave, sir.’
Luke smiled. To my knowledge Scogman had never called him ‘sir’, always the patronising ‘Mr Luke’. He lifted him up and I cradled him against me on my saddle. The mercenaries fired two or three shots. The range was too great, but a ball from the musket ricocheted, clipping my shoulder. It hampered me, rather than anything else, as I tried to keep Luke as still as possible. We had a good start on them and it was old territory for Scogman. It was not far from where our regiment had been billeted, for which he used to ‘requisition’ a chicken, or even a pig. He knew of a small town where we might find a doctor.
Bright bursts of sun flickered intermittently with gloom as we plunged into Epping Forest, branches snapping against us.
Luke stirred, his eyes opening. ‘Where are we?’ His voice was a little slurred, slower and weaker.
‘Nearly home. Not far.’
‘Will Mother be there?’
‘Yes.’
I told Scogman we had to stop and rest, but he insisted we went on a little further through a colder, deeper part of the forest where no plants grew except white fungus clinging to trees. We ploughed through wet dank leaves, finally emerging into a clearing where the sun was a shock of bright light. Scogman listened and nodded. We laid down the saddle blankets and put Luke on them. Scogman said he would ride for the doctor but I shook my head. Luke was breathing more quickly. He gripped my arm, seeming to have some consciousness of how badly he was hurt.
‘Will you tell Mother I was brave?’
‘Yes. You must rest, Luke.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
An unexpected smile crossed his face. ‘You came, Father, you came.’
‘Yes. I –’
I almost said bitterly I wished with all my heart I hadn’t, but he smiled again and I kept repeating that of course I came, of course, and I held him and kissed him. Scogman took off his hat. With Richard’s men looking for us, we had no option but to bury him there. Only Scogman could have found a spade in that God-forsaken spot. I waited with Luke until the sun disappeared beyond the clearing and the birds began their evening song. Scogman returned with a spade he had ‘come across’ and some kitchen towels. The wound on my shoulder, which I had been scarcely aware of, was worse than I thought and kept breaking open. I found some yarrow leaves to staunch the blood and Scogman bandaged it with a towel.
The soil was soft and loamy but giddiness kept overcoming me and Scogman had to do most of the digging. It was growing dark by the time we were done. Up and down the country there are many graves of unknown soldiers. At least the soldiers burying them had the soldiers’ Bible to read from, which Cromwell insisted on everyone in the New Model carrying. We did not even have that, and had to be content with an Our Father, and, as the words choked in my throat, Scogman, just as he had done most of the digging, had to mumble most of them.
PART FOUR
The Good Old Cause
April–October 1660
31
Scogman convinced me I was too weak to continue riding to Highpoint, though in truth I needed little persuasion. The fever had gripped me and I could barely stand, let alone sit in the saddle. Somehow, for I have no memory of the journey, he got me safely back to London.
By the time the fever had abated, three days later, I found myself in a bed of clean sheets smelling of lavender and hops. A pert face surrounded by bouncing ringlets bent over me. ‘You’ve been dreadful ill, sir. Oliver ’ad the doctor ’ere. Didn’t you, Oliver?’
I was so confused I scarcely remembered that Oliver was Scogman’s first name. I asked him why had he not taken me to Queen Street? The servants would have attended to all my needs. What Scogman told me left me in no doubt my old life had ended.
Anne was not at Queen Street. Nor could she return there. Monck’s soldiers had gone and with them my protection. Scogman had somehow persuaded Mr Cole to hand over my papers and had brought them to his house for safety. It was Ben, my old army doctor, who had attended me during the fever and cleaned my wound, and Mrs Scogman (as I thought of her) who had looked after me.
The house in Queen Street was no longer mine. Soon Mr Cole would be welcoming Richard, who would be dictating letters from the leather-topped desk in preparation for the new monarchy. Eventually his son, by his French wife, Geraldine, would stand to attention at the worn line in the carpet before the desk, as I had done and all the Stonehouses before me.
It wasn’t safe to stay at Scogman’s, but it was another day before I was strong enough to move around, so I sat teaching his son Dick his letters. He learned quickly and we almost reached the end of the alphabet.
I sent Scogman to pay off the avaricious maid Mary, as I had promised Ellie. He did so, installing in her place a widow, Mrs Bridges, whose face, he said, would be no threat to anyone’s morality. He explained why I had not come, telling Sam about Luke’s death in my arms and that I was still in mourning for him. I was not surprised when Scogman told me how grief-stricken Sam was about the half-brother he had never known.
The wound on my shoulder was healing well, though I had been weakened by the fever. But I could not rest until I found Anne. I had to find her, tell her about Luke, what he said before he died, and fulfil the promise I made to him.
So despite Ben’s advice to build my strength up first, I was soon on the streets as much as I had ever been as a runaway child. The Countess was still at home to me in Bedford Square, but only just. She pressed a nosegay to her face with barely concealed distaste and said she had not seen Lady Stonehouse, if indeed she was still entitled to that name.
The next day I dressed in the old torn jerkin, thanked Mrs Scogman for her care and saddled my horse. ‘You ain’t goin’, sir, I ain’t learned ev’ryfink yet,’ protested young Dick. He yelled for his father and Scogman put his hand on the reins, telling Dick to fetch his horse. I told him I wanted to ride alone, but he insisted on following me.
We took the old drove road to Highpoint where there were only a few sheep for company, and, even on the brightest days, always a thin, bitter wind, which I greeted like an old friend. I say ‘we’, for I kept ordering Scogman to go back, but at the end of the day he was always there, like a dog, some distance behind me. At first I was irritated, then furious, yelling at him to go home.
‘You have a wife and children! Leave me.’
‘I ain’t with you. Roads still belong to the people, so far as I know. Ain’t been enclosed yet. I’m going to see to my property near Highpoint.’
‘Property you stole from me.’
‘You ain’t yourself, sir.’
It was true.
The first sign there was something wrong was on the edge of the great forest. Coming down from the hills, out of that thin, constant wind and with a bed of leaves for a mattress, I slept heavily. Even the shot did not at first awaken me. Drugged with sleep, it became part of a dream about when I first came here during the war. The shot was still reverberating in my head when Scogman shook me awake.
There was a violent snapping of branches ahead of us, a thunder of hooves, growing slower and slower, before they suddenly subsided. It was barely light. We moved cautiously in the direction of the sound. It grew darker where the trees were more huddled together. Scogman signalled frantically, pointing to the ground. I could just see the dull metallic gleam of a trap, not for animals but poachers. As I skirted it, Scogman frowned. The trap had been disabled, sprung with a piece of wood. A little further on I saw on some nettles a dark stain of blood. A trail of it led us to a path. We collided into one another as we heard someone ahead of us.
We looked at each other. The man was not only unaware of us, but seemed unconcerned who heard him. He was whistling an old ballad, ‘The Diggers’ Song’, that property belonged to everybody, and people could dig where they liked. Scogman had once whistled it himself, but it was no longer a song he cared for.
The King's List Page 20
