She left the forsaken church, replacing her hopes of divine deliverance with her own, more fallible thoughts. Be calm and think. Where to find a farrier – at a stables, maybe an inn? An inn … hadn’t Nicholas told her that was where he sometimes worked? Which way? Try left, it looks a little cleaner.
She followed the street into a broader road, pressing onwards until she saw a sign swinging in the distance. It looked like – yes, an image of the Green Man, an inn. Faster she strode, gaining confidence at every step, when an arm curled round her waist. She was dragged into an alley, slammed face forward against a damp wall, her hood wrenched painfully back on its pin. A mouth pressed against her neck, riding upwards until she felt the moisture of wet lips at her ear. She elbowed backwards, striking nothing. A hand felt under her cloak, round to her breast. An intense fear burst out. She struggled, but she stayed entrapped.
‘Desist.’ A deep voice. ‘Or this won’t be the worst that happens.’ A painful squeeze, a groan in her ear. ‘Desist.’
Then the hand was gone, the menace lifted. She pushed back off the wall. A cat was screeching, kicked by her fleeing assailant, but no person was now there.
She was shaking, but she was close to the inn. She replaced her hood and walked from the alley, her body begging all the while to run, but her mind won out. She would not let this defeat her, not let men overcome her, no more, not after the heartache of her past.
At the inn she found more boys running about, leading miserable horses here and there, but it was better in this stable yard, less filth. She asked if any of them knew Nicholas Wildmoor. Yes, said one, keep going to Turnmill Street, at the sign of the Horse and Star. He is working there today.
She walked fast, turning her head at each sound, at each alley, but she arrived at the inn without trouble. She walked into the courtyard and there he was, Nicholas, the man who had been kind, the man she had only briefly met, but in that instant the most welcome man alive.
He looked up from the horse he was tending. What must he have seen? A wild-eyed woman crossing the yard, her arms outstretched, her cloak and jacket loose. He stood up straight, sweat dripping from matted hair across his stubbled cheek. His mouth opened in surprise, and he quickly grabbed a shirt from the ground, trying to cover his bare chest.
‘I am sorry,’ she managed, ‘that I was rude to you before. I have come to beg your pardon.’ He began to speak but she shook her head, resting her hand on his warm shoulder, oblivious to the naked flesh. ‘But first, I need a drink.’
Chapter Eleven
Nicholas sipped the last dregs of his ale. ‘I’m glad you came to find me.’
It was later that same day. They were in the Boiled Mutton on Holborn, well clear of the Cow Cross slums. After returning to her lodgings to clean up, worrying Bethany senseless in the process, Mercia felt considerably better. She had spent the last half-hour telling Nicholas what had happened in the past two days; talking had been a relief.
‘I was too hasty the other day.’ She tugged at a loose curl in her hair. ‘I suppose I was nervous of confiding in you. But you seem a decent man.’ Nicholas swallowed, casting down his eyes. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘there’s no need to be embarrassed.’
‘I’m not. I suppose I’m not used to people like you showing an interest.’
‘Besides, I never thanked you for the flowers.’
He smiled. ‘I did notice that.’
‘Well, they are lovely.’ She paused. ‘You still look embarrassed.’
‘Honestly, I’m not. But I do have a confession.’ He ruffled the front of his hair. ‘Truth be told, I was going to come to your lodgings tonight, to find you.’
She sat back in surprise. ‘After I dismissed you so rudely?’
He nodded, swigging from his empty glass; he set it down on the square table and pushed it to one side. ‘What happened with Fell, the inn fight, even Michael – it was exciting. It was different. Even when you … threw me out, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Then it came to me. Obvious, really.’
Mercia leant forward. ‘What was obvious?’
He craned his neck to look over her. ‘Where is that lad?’
‘Nicholas – what?’
He put on a sigh. ‘That damn boy.’
Impatient, she looked behind her, clicking her fingers at the boy who was serving them. He folded his arms but came over anyway to take their order of more ale.
‘Now.’ Mercia turned back to Nicholas. ‘What was obvious?’
He grinned. ‘Remind me never to give you slow service.’
She laughed, heartened by his returning humour. ‘I am not usually so – but come, speak!’
‘Very well.’ He leant back in his chair, stretching out his booted legs. ‘I realised I could ask Pikey what he knew.’
‘Let me guess. Pikey was a pikeman?’
‘How did you know?’ His grin broadened. ‘We were mates on the Hero when we ferried the troops about, used to drink the other lads’ rum when they were sleeping, things like that. He was the one who suggested I see if the Markstones had any work.’
‘Ah, I see.’ She felt a prickle of excitement, interrupted by the serving boy banging down her tankard of ale, the frothy head spilling over the rim. Nicholas slapped his hands on the table, making to get up; the boy jumped and hurried away.
‘Bloody kids.’ He took up his own beer. ‘Pikey’s older than me. He’d served with Markstone before, at the end of the war.’ His green eyes danced. ‘He fought at Worcester.’
She sat upright. ‘About the time the Oxford Section was stolen. Don’t tell me your Pikey knows something?’
‘Oh, maybe.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘He certainly had something to say about James North.’
The excitement returned. ‘What?’
Nicholas took a gulp of his ale. ‘Like many a soldier then, North was meant to be at Worcester as well. But there was an incident while the troops were camped at Warwick waiting for the order to march. Pikey remembers it because he and the rest of Markstone’s lot were camped very close to North’s troop.’
She widened her eyes. ‘Did they meet?’
‘Afraid not, but ’tis an interesting tale.’ He shuffled in his chair. ‘The story goes that while they were bored, North’s group raided a supply of ale they found lying about. One of the kid soldiers got bowsy on it, and as a dare he pulled off North’s left glove.’
‘That doesn’t sound like much of a dare.’
‘No, but apparently North was famous for never removing this glove. Everyone wanted to know why. When the kid pulled it off, he revealed a brand on North’s thumb. A letter T.’
Mercia sucked in air between her teeth. ‘Well, well. The mark of a thief.’
Nicholas nodded. ‘Then North went mad, nearly crashed him.’
She held up a hand. ‘He did what?’
‘He nearly beat the boy to death.’
‘And got off without punishment, I suppose.’
‘Not exactly.’ His eyes darted away. ‘North’s commander … ordered a finger chopped off.’
‘How pleasant.’ She screwed up her face. ‘So how did North end up escorting the Oxford Section?’
‘His commander gave him the job. Pikey reckons it was to get him away from the troop for a while. But then he disappeared. Everyone was told he’d deserted because he was angry at his punishment, but we know better.’
‘He stole the paintings and ran off.’ She nodded, thinking. ‘I wonder if it was some sort of revenge?’
‘’Tis possible.’
She drummed her fingers on the table. ‘Did Pikey say who North’s commander was? If he is still alive, he might be helpful.’
Nicholas hesitated. ‘I’m afraid he’s not.’
‘Damn. Still, who was he?’
He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Nicholas?’
‘Mercia, you don’t want to know.’
‘Why?’ She frowned. ‘Just tell me.’
He bit his lip and
sighed. ‘It was Sir Rowland Goodridge.’
‘My father was James North’s commander?’ She sat open-mouthed. ‘But this is unbelievable. First he orders Fell beaten, now he maims North.’
‘Mercia, everyone knows those were savage times. North could have been shot for attacking a fellow soldier. He got off lightly.’
‘If you say so.’ She looked into her ale. ‘Really you’re saying my father was slightly less sadistic than the rest of them. All North lost was a finger.’
‘I’m not saying that at all. Think about it. By assigning him to the escort, your father gave North another chance. Apparently, when word got to Worcester on the eve of the battle that the paintings were lost, Sir Edward was furious, shouting at the top of his voice how North had let your father down.’
She looked up at him. ‘For having given him that chance.’
‘Yes. Not that Pikey knows that. They all thought it was because he’d deserted and so left the Section more open to attack.’
‘You’re right. I am sorry. Maybe Father should have had him shot after all.’ She drummed again at the table. ‘You know, I am certain I heard something about a finger recently. But I cannot remember where.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘Very well. So the Section was stolen just before the battle?’
‘It seems so.’
‘And then Cromwell appointed my father to investigate as he was the one who misjudged North in the first place.’ She looked out a nearby window. ‘North steals the paintings and eludes the search. Then what?’ She let out a frustrated groan. ‘Lady Markstone suggested he fled abroad, although he seems to be back now. I wonder if the same thing happened with the paintings? If they were in England, surely Hawley would have found them when he was ransacking everything he could a couple of years ago.’
Nicholas held up his hands. ‘Who?’
‘Colonel Hawley.’ She scowled, recalling the zealous inspection he had bestowed on Halescott. ‘The King had him searching the length and breadth of the country to try to recover his father’s collection. But as for North, if he did leave, why has he returned now? And how the hell does he know I’m after—my God!’ She gasped. ‘I bet North was the man who attacked me this morning!’
Nicholas frowned. ‘Do you think so? It was probably just some common cloyer, there’s enough about.’
‘Common what?’
‘Thief.’
She shook her head. ‘No, he told me to desist, twice, the same word North used in his note. And his hand.’ She looked down, embarrassed. ‘It didn’t feel right. As if there were something missing.’
‘You don’t mean – like a finger?’
‘Perhaps.’ She sighed. ‘This would have been so much easier if Father had told me about North in his note. I wonder why he did not.’
A sudden worry crossed his face. ‘Mercia, if it truly was North who attacked you, then you must be very careful. Maybe … think if you want to continue with this. He may not be so easy on you next time.’
She leant forward, gripping the edge of the table. ‘I will not let a man like North scare me away. Such men have destroyed my hopes before, and I will be damned in hell before I allow this one to succeed!’
Nicholas sat back, driven into his chair by the force of her words. ‘You are very determined.’ He hesitated. ‘What happened to you in the past?’
Her cheeks flushed red. ‘I do not like to talk of it.’
He looked down. ‘I … understand.’
His voice betrayed his disappointment. She looked at him, feeling guilty at her lack of trust. Once again he was trying to help with his new information, and all she could do was hide behind her usual defensive walls. After the way she had treated him, didn’t he deserve to know something of who she was, why she could be so hard?
‘Very well,’ she said after a pause. ‘I will tell you.’ A hazy film of water formed in her eyes. ‘I was only fourteen. Too young.’
She wiped her eyes, and she began.
She is a girl, though growing fast. She likes boys now, more than her dolls. She is clever, like many of the girls she knows, but she is encouraged in it, unlike any of them. Her father has seen to that. So she is different, suspected, always slightly apart.
She is in the manor house at Halescott. She loves it here. The space, the freedom, the open air of the beautiful gardens. Her father is away, fighting against the King in the war. Mercia adores him. He is a brave soldier, a commander of men, forging victories at Cromwell’s right hand. She knows little of politics. But she knows her daddy is a hero and she loves him.
She is reading in her bedchamber alone. Her mother is in the room next door, worrying, no doubt, that Mercia likes to read so. Think of marriage, she continually says, not this unneeded knowledge. Concentrate on your needlework and dance. Lately she speaks of William Blakewood, how he seems tolerant, but Mercia only cares that his face is pleasant. Although she is not supposed to think of that.
So Mercia reads while her mother frets. She is trapped in the words. The door to the bedroom opens, but she does not hear. A figure enters the room, but she does not see. The figure approaches, but she does not notice. Only when the light changes minutely on her book does she finally look up, startled. The figure is close. She drops the book into her lap.
But it is only her brother, Lawrence, come to tease. He should not, he is sixteen now, growing to be a man. But he does, out of habit, out of a peculiar love. She ignores him. He laughs, asks when she will come out of her lair to act as a real woman should. He wants his breeches sewn. She knows he is teasing, but she is annoyed. She folds her arms and asks him to leave. He takes up the book, mocks a yawn. She demands it back. He laughs again and throws it at her, but not hard, so she can catch it. He says he will see her when they eat, and he leaves. She goes back to her book.
Some minutes pass. She becomes aware of a steady sound, getting louder. It is – yes, horses approaching the house. She looks up, confused. Is it her father? He is not due home today. He is busy, commanding men, being a hero. She looks out the window. Four horses are racing up the driveway. Their riders rein in just in front of the house, dismount, remove their helmets. They are wearing the plumes of the Royalists. Mercia grows worried. These are the men her father is fighting, although her uncle is on their side. Perhaps they are sent from him.
The men are harassed. They are dirty. They file into the house. Mercia thinks, why are they here? Moments later, a scream from downstairs. One of the kitchen maids. Not her favourite? Not kind Bethany? Another scream, and onto the driveway, Mercia sees servants running, shouting out.
The dull thud of many boots pounding up the staircase. Mercia’s stomach freezes inside her, a glacial cold that arrives all at once. She hears doors being thrown back, plates smashed, furniture scraping. Oh God, this is the moment she has overheard her parents speaking of, hoping it would never happen. Desperate soldiers from the war, arrived at Halescott.
The door to the next room is slammed open. Mercia holds her hand to her quivering mouth. Her mother is there, her mother, please Lord, protect my mother! She begins to cry, silently so the soldiers will not hear, her mouth gagging, she cannot breathe. Her mother screams. Mercia is afraid, she does not know what to do. So she hides under a table. She is only fourteen.
A thunderous crash in the room next door. Her mother cries out, groaning, keening, a wretched sound. The men laugh nervously, urge each other on. Mercia cannot make out the words, but she does not want to. She knows what is happening. She knows enough of the world, of this war, to know that. She covers her ears. She is scared. So bitterly scared. She knows too, she will be next.
A loud cry. A powerful, masculine scream of rage. Her brother has run in to the room next door. Mercia uncovers her ears. The sound of metal on metal. Her panic subsides, just a little. Lawrence, her older brother, he has come to beat them off. He is strong, he is handsome, he is clever. He will win.
Another cry. A shocked yell of surprise and fear. Her brother. Then a different sound, an inhu
man sound, a long, hideous, terrible wail. This time her mother. Why is she crying so? Mercia is petrified, she feels as though she is no longer alive.
The sound of hurried boots on the stairs again. Shouting in the courtyard outside, panicking, frantic shouts, while the wail from next door continues, never-ending. Horses galloping madly away. The wail, the wail still there.
Mercia crawls from under the table. She is shaking, but she can move. She stands up, walks to the door. She goes onto the landing. The next door along is open, flung back on its hinges. She looks in. She sees her mother on the floor, her bodice torn away, her breasts exposed. She sees her brother, immobile and bloody, lying in his mother’s embrace, calm as a suckling babe.
Except he is dead. His blood stains the floor. His mother wails. And his sister is useless.
‘So you see,’ said Mercia, Nicholas listening on silently, ‘I made myself a promise. I would never be useless again. Not ever.’ Nicholas held out his hand, and she took it with one of hers, brushing away with the other the solitary tear that was drying on her right cheek. She smiled to reassure him. ‘Do not worry. I am fine. But now you understand.’
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘For what?’
‘For sharing that with me. It was not easy.’
‘No. But it is the truth. It is why I am who I am. And why I will follow that bastard North to the ends of this Earth if I must, before I will give him up.’
Nicholas turned the conversation to trivial matters. The changing weather. Last week’s bear fights. The latest rumours about the King’s French brother-in-law, who was spending too much time with his companions, and not enough time with his wife. Mercia found herself returning to good spirits.
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