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Contents
Margaret Dickinson
BELOVED ENEMY
Copyright
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Margaret Dickinson
Beloved Enemy
Born in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, Margaret Dickinson moved to the coast at the age of seven and so began her love for the sea and the Lincolnshire landscape.
Her ambition to be a writer began early and she had her first novel published at the age of twenty-five. This was followed by twenty-seven further titles including Plough the Furrow, Sow the Seed and Reap the Harvest, which make up her Lincolnshire Fleethaven trilogy.
Many of her novels are set in the heart of her home county, but in Tangled Threads and Twisted Strands the stories include not only Lincolnshire but also the framework knitting and lace industries of Nottingham.
Her 2012 and 2013 novels, Jenny’s War and The Clippie Girls, were both top twenty bestsellers and her 2014 novel, Fairfield Hall, went to number nine on the Sunday Times bestseller list.
Copyright
First published in 1984 by Robert Hale
This edition published 2014 by Bello
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
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ISBN 978-1-4472-29016-2 EPUB
ISBN 978-1-4472-29014-8 HB
ISBN 978-1-4472-29015-5 PB
Copyright © Margaret Dickinson, 1984
The right of Margaret Dickinson to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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My writing career falls into two ‘eras’. I had my first novel published at the age of twenty-five, and between 1968 and 1984 I had a total of nine novels published by Robert Hale Ltd. These were a mixture of light, historical romance, an action-suspense and one thriller, originally published under a pseudonym. Because of family commitments I then had a seven-year gap, but began writing again in the early nineties. Then occurred that little piece of luck that we all need at some time in our lives: I found a wonderful agent, Darley Anderson, and on his advice began to write saga fiction; stories with a strong woman as the main character and with a vivid and realistic background as the setting. Darley found me a happy home with Pan Macmillan, for whom I have now written twenty-one novels since 1994. Older, and with a maturity those seven ‘ fallow’ years brought me, I recognize that I am now writing with greater depth and daring.
But I am by no means ashamed of those early works: they have been my early learning curve – and I am still learning! Originally, the first nine novels were published in hardback and subsequently in Large Print, but have never previously been issued in paperback or, of course, in ebook. So, I am thrilled that Macmillan, under their Bello imprint, has decided to reissue all nine titles.
Beloved Enemy, published in 1984, is a light, historical romance and was the last book published during the first ‘era’ of my writing career.
Chapter One
‘Now, Charmian my love,’ said her mother, tucking a stray golden curl beneath the child’s close-fitting bonnet and smoothing down the pale blue gown. ‘You promise to be a good girl and not to disgrace your father?’
The 10 year-old girl regarded her mother solemnly. ‘Where are we going, Madam?’
Her mother sighed. ‘To visit your father’s half-sister and her family at Gartree Castle. You—you are to be betrothed to your cousin, Joshua.’ There was a catch in her voice.
A small frown creased Charmian’s brow; her candid blue eyes were fixed upon her mother’s face. ‘Betrothed? You mean I am to marry my cousin one day?’
Elizabeth Radley nodded, her lips trembling so that she could not trust herself to speak.
‘But—but I don’t even know him,’ Charmian paused and then said, with a child’s directness, ‘What if I don’t even like him?’
Tears sprang to her gentle mother’s eyes and she touched the girl’s cheek with shaking fingers. ‘Oh my dear child, how can I tell you? It is your father’s wish you should marry his half-sister’s son. Having no sons of his own …’ Her voice faltered and Charmian knew her mother was thinking of her own two infant sons who lay in the family grave. ‘ He—he wishes to unite our family even more closely. Come.’ Elizabeth Radley took hold of her small daughter’s hand. ‘It is time we were leaving.’
Charmian looked down at herself again—at the new gown she was wearing. She could not remember ever having worn anything so fine before. It was fashioned in pale blue silk, the bodice decorated with tiny pearls. On her feet were dainty blue satin slippers, and now around her shoulders was a darker blue velvet cape. She glanced too at her mother.
‘I’ve never seen you look so pretty, Madam.’ She reached out her fingers to touch the gown her mother wore. Its bodice was tight with a low, square neckline and the flowi
ng skirt was divided in the front to show the under-petticoat decorated with embroidery and pretty ribbons. Her mother’s fair hair, normally hidden beneath the plain, close-fitting white bonnet of a Puritan wife, was dressed in loose ringlets with soft tiny curls on her forehead and thicker curls against her pale cheeks. Entwined in her hair was a string of pearls. But Charmian’s compliment, instead of bringing a smile to Elizabeth Radley’s lips, only seemed to make her more anxious.
As they descended the stairs together to join her father, Charmian felt her mother’s hand tighten on hers almost to the point when the child wanted to cry out in pain.
Joseph Radley turned impatiently. ‘Ah, there you are, come along, come along, ’tis time we were …’
Then he stopped and stood quite still, his expression darkening as he watched them come down the last few steps and stand meekly before him.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ His voice was an angry whisper. ‘How dare you dress yourself—and the child—in such an outrageous and unseemly manner?’ His hand gestured towards the low-cut neckline of his wife’s new gown.
‘It’s her b-betrothal. I thought—it would be a celebration and …’
‘A celebration!’ The word was a blasphemy to Joseph Radley. ‘The sober, solemn pledging of two young people. Not an occasion, I assure you, Wife, to indulge in such—such ungodliness.’
Elizabeth Radley winced and Charmian felt her mother begin to shake.
‘Return upstairs immediately—those gowns are to be burned. Do you hear me, Wife? Burned, I say!’
His bellow of rage followed them as, almost running, Elizabeth Radley dragged her daughter up the stairs once more.
Back in the bedchamber, Charmian watched helplessly as the tears ran down her mother’s face. Silently she helped her mother to disrobe and put on the plain black dress with its high neckline and white collar and cuffs. Then she too slipped out of the lovely silk gown and put on her own grey dress. The few moments of happiness, of joy in wearing such pretty clothes, were gone. Even the blue cape was whisked away and the grey mantle she usually wore took its place.
In a strict Puritan household such as that of Joseph Radley, no finery was permitted. Elizabeth Radley, before her marriage a beautiful, joyful girl, who had delighted in lovely gowns and luxurious garments, had made the mistake of wanting the same thing for her daughter. She would not be forgiven, she knew.
During the journey from Boston to the Masons’ castle home in the Lincolnshire Wolds, the atmosphere in the coach was uncomfortable. Joseph Radley was still angry and his wife sat next to Charmian with downcast eyes. The child sighed and took to gazing out of the coach. It was a clear, sharp day in September and already the leaves were golden and tumbling to the ground. Such wonderful bright colours, Charmian thought, the greens and browns and golden colours. If Nature were allowed such vibrant tones why then was it so wrong for her to dress in pretty clothes? But her 10-year-old mind could not answer her own question. She felt only the unfairness of her father’s strict ruling. She stole a glance at him.
Joseph Radley sat opposite seeming to occupy the whole seat himself. He was a short, stocky man, and grossly overweight for his height. He wore loose-fitting breeches, a jerkin and doublet all in sombre black with the broad white collar and the tall steeple-crowned hat of the zealous Puritan man. His hair was close-cropped and his clean-shaven face was round and florid and grew purple when he was in a rage. It was still showing signs of that very colour even now, some time after his outburst of anger.
Joseph Radley thought himself an important man. Not only was he a successful cloth merchant, but an alderman of the town of Boston. Even more importantly he was an ardent Puritan—an independent like his mentor Oliver Cromwell. The independents wanted to decentralize the Church and put the power in the hands of each individual congregation. Joseph Radley sought power. He had found a measure as an alderman, but he sought more. In Cromwell’s shadow—a shadow which Joseph Radley was convinced would grow and spread until it covered the whole of England—he believed he could achieve that ambition.
For the last six years, ever since King Charles had raised his Royal Standard at Nottingham in August 1642, England had been in a state of civil war. As an alderman, Joseph Radley had been one of the main leaders in declaring Boston for the Parliamentarians. The ebb and flow of the revolutionary cause had had its effect on the town. At times they had found themselves almost cut off by Royalist victories. Then as the Parliamentary army moved northwards, Boston was once again linked to Puritan strongholds. Joseph Radley soon managed to get himself noticed by the Parliamentary leaders by sending provisions to the troops of horse to assist the Puritan cause.
The war had dragged on, swaying this way and that and the Parliamentary forces used that time well to organize themselves. An army of the eastern counties under the Earl of Manchester was formed, and Oliver Cromwell was appointed as lieutenant-general of horse. Boston became a kind of refuge for the Parliamentary commanders where they would meet to hold their Councils of War. Joseph Radley made sure that his house was ever open to such men who needed a night’s rest and food.
Charmian—throughout her growing years—and her mother were ordered to keep to their apartment though, once, from the top of the staircase Charmian witnessed the arrival of a small, squat figure, with piercing eyes, whom she later learnt to be Oliver Cromwell.
By January 1644 the differing beliefs and desires of the leaders within the Parliamentary cause had exploded. Joseph Radley had returned to Boston from attending the House of Commons in London in a state of high excitement.
‘We must support Cromwell, he is the man to lead us to victory. Neither Manchester nor Willoughby have the strength, the power, the vision to see the Royalists crushed …’ As he had spoken he had pounded his fist into the palm of his other hand.
From that moment Joseph Radley had singled out Cromwell as the man with destiny in his grasp and he had devoted himself to Cromwell’s cause. Now, at this moment as they approached Gartree Castle, Joseph Radley was sitting in the coach congratulating himself on his foresight. At Cromwell’s side, he had the chance to become a man of even greater power, of the highest position even. Already he was a ruling voice in the government of the town. He meant to purge Boston of any Royalist voice, of any being who spoke against the independent belief. In time, together, they would rid the towns, the counties, the country, of any such voice.
As Joseph Radley saw the towers of Gartree Castle ahead he smiled, feeling satisfied with his world and his future.
The coach jolted over the rough tracks, throwing the silent occupants this way and that, so that by the time they were passing through the guardhouse and over the bridge across the moat and into the enclosed courtyard of Gartree Castle, Charmian felt her small body to be battered and bruised.
The castle stood at the far end of the courtyard from where their coach had crossed the bridge. It was a square building in dark stone and the southern wall fell sheer into the moat. The castle towered four floors high, topped by a defensive parapet and with four guard towers protecting each corner.
The courtyard was alive with activity; low buildings, which housed the soldiers of the castle, ran around the edge of the yard against the high wall and on the eastern side a small footbridge led across the moat to the castle’s gardens and then down to a river which half-encircled the whole castle area, providing even more fortification.
As the coach drew to a halt in front of the northern side of the great building, Charmian stepped down shakily as a manservant opened one of the three doors leading into the castle.
‘My dear Joseph!’ A small stout woman, in Puritan dress similar to their own, was hurrying forward her hands outstretched towards Joseph Radley.
‘My dear sister.’ Charmian’s father was greeting the woman. ‘I trust we find you in good health? And your family?’
‘You do indeed, Brother. So this is my niece?’
The child was obliged to submit to the woman’s
severe scrutiny. Looking up at her aunt was like looking at a feminine form of her father, so alike were the half-brother and sister.
Joseph Radley was the son of Abraham Radley and his first wife, Ruth. She had died five years after Joseph’s birth. His father had married again and Mary Radley Mason was the child of that second union, some ten years her half-brother’s junior. Nevertheless, their resemblance to each other was strong, and not only in physical appearance. Mary Mason, too, was an independent and a devout follower of Oliver Cromwell.
Charmian noticed that Mary Mason and Elizabeth Radley greeted each other politely but coldly. Even the plain Puritan dress could not hide Elizabeth’s beauty and, beside her, Mary Mason appeared even to the child to be old and ugly though she knew her mother and her aunt to be the same age. Instinctively Charmian drew closer to her mother as together they climbed the worn stone steps and entered the fortress-like home of the Masons.
The household, Charmian found, was run in much the same manner as their own. If anything, it was even more lacking in comfort and any kind of luxury than their house in Boston. The vast stone rooms were cold and often unheated. The autumnal evenings and early mornings found Charmian and her mother shivering. The furniture was sparse and, such as there was, was heavy and uncomfortable. Even her mother was expected to sit on a stool whilst Joseph Radley took the oak armchair. For Charmian, there was no seat at all.
‘We shall hold a small ceremony tomorrow evening,’ Mary Mason informed them, ‘when the betrothal will take place. It will be a simple, solemn occasion, Brother, as is our custom.’
Joseph Radley nodded agreement and he glanced towards his wife, remembering, no doubt, her vain attempt to bring an air of celebration to the occasion. Mary Mason, it seemed, could do no wrong in her brother’s eyes, Charmian thought ruefully, whereas her poor, gentle mother could do nothing right.
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