‘But it—’ she protested.
The gavel descended again. ‘Miss Haig, please be quiet.’
She saw her mother’s worried expression and Farmer Bilton’s satisfied sneer as he stepped down.
Patrick stood proudly when he was called on again and he repeated the truth. ‘The first shot was fired to scare the animal and it was injured by accident. I only did what any responsible gamekeeper would have done.’
Sir William listened and frowned. ‘You refused to produce the gun when ordered, yet you admit you fired it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How did you come by the gun?’
‘It belongs to my father. He was a rifleman in the war with France.’
‘Indeed?’ Sir William commented. ‘And where is your father now?’
Patrick looked around the courtroom. ‘He is here, somewhere. He must be.’
He gazed across at Quinta with raised eyebrows and she shook her head. She had to press her lips together firmly to stop them trembling but her eyes were glassy with tears. She could not give him such sad news across an open court. His expression changed to one that Quinta had not seen before: at first puzzled surprise and then a naked fear haunted Patrick’s face. Quinta felt so helpless. She wanted to reach out and hold him.
Her mother rose as the clerk announced that the widow Haig would speak for the prisoner. She looked haggard and gaunt and now as old as her years.
‘The - the prisoner is honest and hard-working, sir. He has tilled my land these past months and returned it to profit.’
‘He is a vagrant, is he not, madam?’
‘He and his father arrived as such. They took lodging in my cowshed.’
‘I saw no sign of the soldier when I was there. Where is he now?’
Quinta saw her mother close her eyes to stop the tears spilling out. ‘He is . . .’ Her voice was hoarse.
‘Speak up, madam.’
‘He was lately at the surgeon’s house, sir. His knee has pained him since he was brought down by a French musket at Waterloo. The surgeon advised . . .’ Her voice broke and Quinta reached forward over the barrier as though this effort would give her mother strength. Laura continued, ‘He - he took off the leg a few days ago.’
‘No.’ A strangled groan came from Patrick and his face contorted with pain. He’d known - they all had - that this was a possibility. Quinta met his eyes with a tortured expression of her own. A sympathetic murmur spread through the courtroom.
Laura Haig choked on her words. ‘Sergeant Ross is dead, sir,’ she croaked. ‘He passed away yesterday morning - at - at the surgeon’s house.’
‘No!’ Patrick let out a yell of protest and sagged against the wooden rail surrounding his stall. ‘No,’ he cried again. ‘It cannot be!’ His head dropped and his body slumped sideways.
Quinta could bear it no longer. She climbed over the barrier. Her heart was breaking for him and she could not contain herself. She had to hold him and comfort him and say how much she loved him and how she would help him. She knew the agony of his loss and she grieved for him. She pushed herself forward, past the court clerks, stretching out her arms.
‘Patrick!’ she cried. But she was prevented from reaching him by the constable’s men. Two of them came from she knew not where, took her arms and stilled her progress.
He recovered and leaned forward, reaching towards her with his hands. She struggled like a madwoman and loosed one of her arms. She was close enough to see the shine in Patrick’s eyes as his tears welled.Their fingers touched and clasped briefly before she was dragged away and he was hauled back upright by a guard.
Her own tears rolled freely down her face. ‘He is innocent, sir,’ she cried. ‘I shot the deer. It was me!’
The gavel fell again. ‘Miss Haig, you must control yourself and be silent in my court, or I shall be obliged to ask the constable to remove you.’ Sir William’s soft tone disarmed her. He did not speak so kindly to others in his court. ‘This is indeed sad news, but it does not excuse the prisoner’s crime. Nor will it influence my verdict.’ He addressed the constable’s men. ‘Miss Haig may sit on the witness bench.’
She shook free her other arm, brushed down her gown with her hands and took her seat next to Farmer Bilton. Patrick’s chains rattled as he attempted to wipe the tears from his face. His eyes were deep, haunted pools in sunken sockets.
‘Continue, Mrs Haig.’
‘Sergeant Ross was a hero, sir. He was a brave soldier who fought at Waterloo.’
‘His regiment?’
‘I do not know.’
‘I do, sir,’ Patrick answered. ‘The Ninety-fifth, sir. He was in the infantry square that drove off French cavalry at the end.’
‘Ah yes, brave indeed.They suffered heavy losses from cannon.’
‘The battlefield surgeon judged he would not live, sir.’
Quinta allowed herself a vestige of hope for Patrick as Sir William considered this new information.
Her mother composed herself and continued. ‘Sergeant Ross was a respectful gentleman, sir. I should not have let him stay otherwise. His son, too, is trustworthy, I assure you. He is to marry my daughter, sir.’
‘Is he, by God?’ Sir William looked affronted, as though this information caused him offence.
Farmer Bilton leaped to his feet. ‘No he is not! Her late father promised the old Squire - I mean your father, sir - that she would be mine.’
‘He didn’t!’ Quinta cried, jumping to her feet. ‘He didn’t, did he, Mother?’
‘Quinta!’ her mother whispered loudly. ‘Do be quiet. Please.’
The gavel came down again. ‘I shall have order in my court. Sit down, Mr Bilton.’
Quinta had been shaking her head emphatically as Farmer Bilton spoke. Patrick was in despair. His fingers gripped the wooden surround until his knuckles turned white. ‘I’ll not wed him,’ she called out. ‘I love you.’
He managed a smile. ‘I love you, too.’
Sir William looked harassed. He glanced at Quinta and then frowned at his prisoner. ‘Mrs Haig, as soon as this court is finished you will take your daughter home and out of harm’s way. You may sit down,’ he concluded.
Laura took her place beside Quinta and held her hand as they sat.
Sir William raised his voice. ‘I have listened to the witnesses, and I have my own testimony. I saw the results of this crime while the beast was warm. There is no doubt in my mind that the prisoner is guilty of this charge.’
The courtroom was silenced by this decision. Poaching was a hanging offence. Quinta’s throat constricted and she gripped her mother’s hand tightly.
‘However, the prisoner is a strong and hard-working fellow,’ Sir William went on. ‘Perhaps he is lacking only in discipline. We shall see. Were his father here, he would understand my thinking.’ He turned to face Patrick and continued: ‘Patrick Ross, I find that you were observed to kill and take a deer belonging to the Swinborough estate by shooting it in Five-acre Wood.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I do not hang poachers in my court. Nor do I add to our overcrowded gaols, when our empire can use such men as yourself in the colonies.’
Quinta’s heart turned over. Sir William was going to transport Patrick to the other side of the world on a convict ship! No! He must not do that - Patrick was innocent! He did not steal the deer. It was not fair!
‘Prisoner, you have been found guilty of poaching. You are sentenced to serve as a soldier in the King’s army for as long as His Majesty shall need you.’ His gavel came down for the final time and he said, ‘This court is adjourned.’
Quinta would never forget Patrick’s haunted look of wretched misery and pain as he was led away from the courtroom. He struggled at first until he was overcome by two hefty guards.
‘He is innocent,’ she cried as she jumped to her feet. ‘It was me! I shot the deer.’
‘I’ll write to you, Quinta!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I promise! Do not give up hope ...’
Those were
the last words she heard him utter before he was bundled through a door at the back of the courtroom. Her knees threatened to buckle beneath her and she sank on to the hard wooden bench. ‘He is innocent,’ she whispered, collapsing against her mother.
The court clerk was impatient for his courtroom to empty so he could get to his dinner. ‘Come on now, miss, and you, madam. It’s better than a convict ship,’ he muttered. ‘He’ll get clothes for his back, boots for his feet and food in his belly. He’s one of the lucky ones, if you ask me.’
‘Where will he go?’ Quinta asked.
‘I can’t rightly say. We’ve had no fighting in Europe since Old Boney was defeated. India, I should think.’
‘Where’s that?
‘T’other side of the world. Now move along, miss, if you please.’
‘But how long will the King need him?’
The clerk stopped and grimaced.‘Depends how long he stays alive. His Majesty won’t need him when he’s dead, will he?’
‘You mean he will be killed?’ Quinta asked in horror.
‘Or die of some foreign fever,’ the clerk answered briskly and gave her a push. ‘Now take your ma and clear out.’
But Quinta would not leave. ‘I want to see him before he goes. Where have they taken him?’
‘He’ll be away as soon as the papers are signed. Sir William always favours the army. Our own Yorkshire regiment is recruiting in the Riding. He’ll be marching with them before the day is out.’
‘But surely they will let him stay for his father’s burial?’ Laura protested.
‘He’s a criminal, madam. Guilty as charged.’
‘He is not. My daughter spoke the truth.’ Laura staggered and grasped the side of the door for support. Quinta took hold of her mother’s shoulders.
‘You must rest, Mother. You are not well.’
‘I’m tired, my dear. I have had little sleep of late.’ She opened a small bag she was carrying. ‘This is a letter for Patrick.’ She gave it to the clerk. ‘It contains his father’s last wishes. Will you see that he gets it?’
‘Can he read, then? We don’t get many poachers through here that can read. It’ll go in with his papers.’ The clerk heaved a sigh as he took the letter and opened his ledger again.‘I should forget about him if I were you, miss. Why don’t you go and wed old Mr Bilton there, like your father wanted you to?’
‘I should listen to what he says, Mrs Haig.’
Every muscle in Quinta’s body tensed as she recognised Farmer Bilton’s voice. She closed her eyes to shut out the memory of his behaviour at the cottage when he had made that vile suggestion to her. She could not trust herself to speak to him in a civilised manner and moved away. She heard her mother say, ‘My daughter says you lied to the court, sir. You could not have seen Patrick shoot the deer.’
‘I heard the shots, though. And I saw him drag it stone dead from the trees. Same thing.You might think on me a bit different now with both the travellers gone. My offer still stands, you know.’
‘Good day to you, sir,’ Laura replied stiffly. ‘Quinta, dear, would you give me your arm? We’ll go back to the Crown.’
They walked slowly across town and up the High Street in a shocked silence. ‘I think Sir William had made his decision before Patrick was heard,’ Laura said eventually. ‘He didn’t approve of him at all.’
‘He was angry when he found the deer. I tried to explain but he wouldn’t listen to me.’
‘Patrick had no chance of justice, did he? Farmer Bilton made sure that he would be taken away. He’s a wicked man.’
‘He’s gentry, Mother.’
‘But only to those who do not know him as we do.’
‘Well, they still look after their own. The old Squire looked after Father, though. What did Father do for him all those years ago?’
‘I’ve told you; he was a good servant to him,’ Laura answered shortly.
Her tone implied the matter was closed, but Quinta persisted. ‘Was it anything to do with the farm?’
‘It’s in the past, dear. We have your future to consider now.’
There is no future for me, Quinta thought desperately. She wondered how she was going to go on without Patrick. Yet she had to for her mother’s sake. She hugged her arm closer. ‘We’ll stay out of the workhouse somehow.’
‘How shall we do that, dear?’
‘Farmer Bilton can have his tenancy back if he wants. I’ll find work here in town.’
They were halfway up the High Street. Laura stopped to catch her breath. ‘I can’t live here, my love, with all the smoke and smells. It makes me cough so and the physician said I need country air and delicate food.’
‘Then we must go home immediately.The garden is growing well and we have the hens. We’d best get back to them. We have left our house empty for too long.’
‘We cannot leave until after we have buried the sergeant, dear. George was prepared for the worst to happen and had left instructions with the surgeon.’
‘Then we shall have to move from the Crown. We can’t afford to stay there.’
‘The innkeeper’s wife told me it was all taken care of. George was thorough with his affairs.’
Quinta took her mother straight to the chamber they would now share at the Crown and took off her bonnet. She placed it on the chest of drawers next to a brown paper parcel that had languished there unopened. ‘Are you going to unwrap this, Mother?’
‘It’s from the draper’s shop. It’s for you, dear. You do it.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a gift, my dear; from Sergeant Ross. His wish was for you to wear it when you married his son.’
Quinta carefully took off the wrapping. The exquisite lace and ribbons lay neatly folded. She leaned weakly against the drawers. ‘He bought it f-for me; for my wedding to Patrick.’ She could no longer stop her tears. She did not try. She crumpled into a heap on the floor and sobbed.
Chapter 16
Patrick’s grief was consumed by fury. His initial disbelief that his father was dead had turned to anger with himself for not following his instincts and being there with him. While he was sealing his love for Quinta his father was dying. He saw it clearly now. His father had known the risks and had been prepared for the worst. He did not want him to have a lonely future on the road. Patrick’s turbulent thoughts so destroyed his reason that he was hardly aware of the guards manhandling him to a cell, or the later march, still chained, to join a ragged band of raw recruits for His Majesty’s army.
If that farmer hadn’t lied about what he had really seen, there would have been doubt about his guilt. Sir William might have believed him and he would be free, free to bury his father and to grieve for him; free to love Quinta, to wed her in a church and . . . and . . . The image of a family beneath the walnut tree near the cottage sprang into his head. This time it was Quinta in his vision, with a child, no, two; one playing around her feet and another suckling at her breast. It was then that he cried. He cried for the loss of his father, for the loss of Quinta, the girl - no, the woman - who had shown him how much he could love. And now she was gone. They were both gone for ever from his life. His life was gone.
At first he was consoled only by the thought that his life would be short. He knew what they called foot soldiers: cannon fodder, to be fed systematically to enemy fire until the King had killed more men than his enemies, or the other way round, and the battle was over. He wondered when that day would arrive. Europe was at peace and had been since Napoleon’s final defeat. The King’s army had been fighting further afield, the other side of the globe, building an empire.
But as he came to terms with his grief, he realised he did not want to die. He considered an escape and was planning how when two other men as desperate as he broke out of line and ran. One was taken down by a bullet and killed. The other was hunted like a fox, brought back and flogged as an example to the others, who were obliged to watch.
He was a prisoner. He was a soldier and unlikely to
return alive to his love. He did not even know whether he would get pay for his soldiering. But if he did . . . He resolved that Quinta would have it all. It was the only way left to him to prove to her his love was constant. What need did he have for money? Without Quinta, his life was finished. He decided that if his fate was to die in battle then he would strive to die later rather than sooner and to that end he determined to be a good soldier. When he was killed, he would die fighting, fighting to survive for his Quinta, and leaving everything he possessed to her so that she would know that he had loved her to the end.
He wondered how he could get hold of pen and paper to write his thoughts down as a testament, a letter to his beloved Quinta, to give for safekeeping to the officer in command. But as the days and weeks passed, he realised that this was a fantasy for a prisoner recruit. He bided his time for there was nothing else to do with it.
He knew what to expect from the army; his father had educated him with fighting stories all his adolescent life. And he soon realised that he had a quicker wit than many of the other foot soldiers who joined the ragged line tramping to Newark. Some were convicted criminals like him, and as likely innocent, too, but mostly they were wretched country labourers who had abandoned their poverty-stricken lives on farms for the grime of coal pits and manufactories that were spreading like a disease across the land. An industrial revolution he’d heard it called. Whatever it was, it was changing the face of England.
He recalled his father’s words: ‘Just did as I was told and kept my head down.That’s how I survived.The drill sergeants behaved like snarling, starving animals but they had a job to do, as I found out when I rose in the ranks.’
‘Just human beings like you and me?’ Patrick had replied.
‘Not all of them,’ his father had answered darkly.
As Patrick tramped in line he observed the officers and men who would control his life and kept his own counsel. His father had trained him perfectly to do that.
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