by Stella Riley
Tom Mayhew said, ‘They’re all round, sir. At least a hundred of them. We haven’t a chance.’
Justin smiled. ‘I didn’t say we had. Once we open the door, it will be every man for himself. But I’d be grateful for ten volunteers to stay with me and give covering fire. We may not get out but we can at least take a few of those bastards with us. Well?’
There was no question of refusal and ten men, all proud of their marksmanship, immediately crossed the floor to his side. Justin deployed them, wished the rest of his troop good luck – and threw the front doors wide.
Even when a dozen men were cut down in the first rush, the rest battled on with reckless daring. Several were taken, most died where they fell and some half dozen managed to melt into the shadows.
Those left inside could no longer see to load their pistols. Smoke seared their lungs and eyes and, around them, the building was a tumbling mass of flame that rained fragments of burning debris. Then, with a massive creak, the gallery started to give way.
‘Other door,’ gasped Justin. ‘Out.’
Like the others, he was on his hands and knees, scarcely able to breathe or see. His palms were raw from beating out the flames that attacked his hair and clothing. There were only five of them now. Three crawled, as he had said, to the far door. The fourth collapsed, retching and Justin, who - having neither the will nor the strength to leave had decided not to bother doing so - found himself forced into further, excruciating effort.
His chest screamed and the flesh of his hands sealed itself to Tom Mayhew’s charred and smouldering coat as he began dragging him, inch by terrible inch, across the floor. A sequence of movements brought unimaginable torment and was chased by an eruption of brilliant molten heat. Then there was blessed darkness and peace.
*
Far, far away beyond the reaches of mind and will, were voices that ebbed and flowed and mingled. The light was closer, only just behind his closed lids … but he did not want that any more than he wanted to hear what the voices said. The light meant pain and the voices, understanding; recollection of something that would tear him apart if he let it in.
‘Justin! Wake up. Come on, now. You can hear me. Try to wake up, Justin.’
‘Oh no,’ he thought firmly. ‘No. That would be stupid.’
He drew breath, exerting every ounce of strength to turn his head away. There was wave upon wave of tearing pain and a harsh, repetitive sound that frightened him. Something cool touched his lips and his mouth was filled with pungent sweetness. He swallowed, choking, and the darkness came again.
The next time he woke, the voice had changed to that of a woman. He heard it, dimly, through distorting mists that fooled him for a time into thinking he did not know it. Then the unremitting stream of derision parted the veils and sent time spinning back to the place where memory and reality became one and the past fused with the present.
Suddenly, the dark was no longer safe. Contemptuous faces and accusing questions dragged him to the precipice of his father’s disbelief where, last time, he had not been allowed to speak in his own defence. The hurt welled up and up until, finally, unable to bear it, he relieved it with his voice.
Incoherently and often also intelligibly, he talked for quite a long time. Then, as his body began to heal, he came slowly back from the demon-infested darkness and into the waking nightmare of pain and reality. Finally, he opened reluctant eyes on the blurred face of Mistress Rhodes and managed, on the third attempt, to say, ‘How long?’
She smiled with hard brilliance.
‘Five days. You have been helpless for five days.’
He closed his eyes again, frowning, and tried to force his mind clear of shadows. When he opened them again, Will Compton was beside him.
‘Thank God you’re better,’ he said. ‘We almost thought we’d lost you. Anne has nursed you single-handedly. She wouldn’t even let me in, lest I disturbed you.’
Justin met the eyes of his tormentor with sardonic understanding.
‘Thank you.’
She smiled again.
‘It’s been my pleasure, I assure you.’
Justin looked back at Sir William.
‘How did I get out? I don’t remember.’
‘You were damned lucky. Five minutes earlier and you’d have walked into a troop of Roundhead musketeers. As it was, they must have thought there was no one left alive because they moved off to recover their horses. Charles slipped back with half a dozen troopers, just as three of your fellows made it out and in time to see you dragging Tom clear – and then the lintel came down on you both.’ Will paused, grinning ruefully. ‘Well – mostly on you, actually. Tom is feeling pretty fit and panting to come and take your hand in gratitude. I’ve told him he’ll have to wait a while for that.’
Justin raised his arms cautiously and surveyed his throbbing, white-wrapped hands. ‘So I see.’ He lowered them again and became aware, for the first time, of the tight strapping around his chest. ‘And my ribs?’
‘Just cracked, we think. You’ll be fit again in no time.’
A bleakly ironic smile touched the lean mouth.
‘I can’t wait. How … how many men did I lose?’
Will frowned. ‘Now, Justin, that isn’t —’
‘How many?’
There was a pause. ‘Thirty-seven – but we don’t yet know how many of those were taken prisoner.’
A tremor passed over the still, haggard face and there was a sound of a harsh, tearing breath, suddenly checked. Swallowing, Justin said carefully, ‘I think I’d like to rest now. Do you mind?’
‘Of course not.’ Will rose hesitantly. ‘Try to sleep.’
‘Yes. I will. And so must Mistress Rhodes - who has already done more than enough.’
‘Oh no,’ said Anne sweetly, her eyes watching avidly for the first fissure. ‘I wouldn’t dream of leaving you now.’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ White-lipped and shaking, Justin stared furiously at the Governor. ‘Get her out of here, will you? Just get her out!’
Courtesy fled before compassion and, taking her arm, Sir William marched Mistress Rhodes smartly from the room.
The door snapped shut behind them, severing the last thread of Justin’s self-control. For thirty-seven lives tragically lost and one uselessly preserved, he turned his face hard into the pillow and wept.
~ * ~
ELEVEN
‘Abigail, you have far too much polish on that cloth. It is wasteful and will clog the carving of the furniture. I believe I have mentioned it before.’
‘Yes, Rachel.’ Submissively, Abigail scraped some polish back into the pot. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘And the next time you clean the silver, do try not to leave fingerprints all over it,’ continued Rachel, irritated both by the enforced indolence of advanced pregnancy and the perpetual ache in her back. ‘Have you spoken to Betty about the meat?’
‘No, dear. I did that,’ said Alice patiently. ‘You must stop fretting, Rachel, it’s very bad for you. Why don’t you read to us from the news-sheet? There must be something about the new peace talks at Uxbridge – and Jonas said there was something about the garrison here.’
Allowing herself to be diverted, Rachel picked up Mercurius Britannicus and coolly read out the appropriate passages, ending with that referring to Banbury.
‘Oh it is a cursed den or else it had been yielded up last summer. When all their gunpowder is gone they are able to maintain it on bare oaths and curses against an army of Saints at any time.’
Laying the sheet down again, she said acidly, ‘Well, it is undoubtedly true but hardly constructive. Are we never to be rid of them?’
‘Eventually. If these plans for a new army materialise,’ said Jonas soothingly from the doorway. ‘Abigail – go and help that frivolous Atkins child to choose her lace. I take it that Samuel is still in the stock-room?’
‘Yes,’ said Abigail, exchanging an anxious glance with her mother. ‘Shall I call him?’
�
��No. I have to go up anyway.’ He eyed her with dawning irritation. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? I thought I told you to go into the shop?’
Pink-cheeked from the cold and with her golden hair framed by a sapphire hood, Barbara Atkins looked even prettier than usual.
‘At last!’ she said, as Abigail appeared. ‘I thought you were never coming. Have you heard the news? Isn’t it awful?’
‘What news?’ asked Abigail, her mind on Samuel’s habit of secret reading. ‘I thought you wanted some lace.’
‘That was just an excuse,’ came the impatient reply. ‘I had to talk to someone – and I thought of you because I know you’ve at least met him. Besides, I could hardly speak of him to Father or Aunt Jane, now could I?’
‘I don’t know. Who are we talking about?’
‘Why, Captain Ambrose, of course! Do you mean you really haven’t heard? They say he was quite dreadfully burned a week ago at Compton Wynyates and is lucky to be alive. I’m so upset I could cry. The most attractive man I’ve ever met – and a real gentleman, even if he is a Cavalier – and this has to happen!’
Strange sensations were taking place inside Abigail’s stomach and she forgot about Samuel.
‘Who told you this?’
‘Joseph Parsons. He’s got some of Charles Compton’s troop billeted in his house and he heard them talking. They said that Justin – Captain Ambrose – lost more than thirty men. Not that I care about that … but it does make you wonder why he didn’t just surrender.’ Bab paused, looking curiously at the other girl. ‘Are you all right? You’ve gone awfully white.’
‘I’m fine,’ lied Abigail. Raised, angry voices drifted in from the house, piercing her cocoon of worry. ‘Shall I show you some lace?’
‘Lace? Oh – no. I’m not in the mood,’ shrugged Bab, faintly disappointed in her audience. Her blue eyes raked the shelves. ‘Where’s that bolt of cherry taffeta? Never say you’ve sold it! I’ve been longing for a length of that ever since I first saw it.’
So, as it happened, had Abigail but she would have surrendered every inch of it to be rid of Mistress Barbara. A door slammed and she could hear Jonas shouting. She said quickly, ‘It’s upstairs. No one will buy such a colour, you know that.’
‘Well, save it for me,’ laughed Bab, whirling to the door. ‘I’d marry the Wizard Prince himself if he brought me a pink silk gown.’
For a long moment after she had gone, Abigail remained very still and faced the fact that she couldn’t go running down to the Castle while Jonas and Sam were in full spate. Indeed, she told herself logically, there was no reason to go at all. Cold and sick, she turned towards the contumely in the parlour.
‘How long?’ Jonas was demanding balefully. ‘How long has this sly disobedience been going on? Is this what you do every time my back is turned – waste your time reading the kind of books that you know are expressly forbidden in this house?’
‘Since those you approve of reach a mammoth count of two – yes,’ retorted Samuel, bitterly. He faced Jonas across the table where Abigail’s polish now reposed amidst a litter of books and pamphlets. ‘But the work gets done. And even if it didn’t, you have absolutely no right to search my room as if I were some dishonest apprentice with my hand in your cash box.’
‘You insolent young fool! For as long as you sit at my board and sleep under my roof, I have every right – including that of guarding your spiritual welfare.’
‘If that means keeping me as ignorant as you are yourself, I deny it you! And I’ll continue reading anything I can get my hands on.’
‘Not if I know it!’ stormed Jonas, snatching up a book and then throwing it down as if its touch defiled him. ‘Poetry! Vile immorality fit only for burning. And this – Essays in Philosophy. Dangerous ideas for idle minds. Is this what you call knowledge – a lot of heathen rubbish? As for this,’ he pounced on Godwin’s The Man in the Moon, ‘it’s an offence against the Creation and an abomination in the eyes of the Lord!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ snapped Samuel, white-faced and furious. ‘It’s a work of fiction, that’s all. As for the rest, the vile and immoral poetry happens to be Shakespeare – who I presume even you may have heard of! – and the Essays are by Thomas Hobbes. It’s neither God’s fault nor mine that your brain doesn’t function beyond the confines of your sales ledgers and your self-appointed pulpit.’
‘Blasphemy!’ choked Jonas, alarmingly red in the face.
‘No – honesty.’
‘Sam!’ moaned Alice. ‘Please stop it.’
He swung round to fix her with a glittering stare.
‘Why? It’s time these things were said. I’m tired of having to do my reading in secret and I’m tired of seeing you being alternately bullied or ignored in your own home.’ His eyes flashed to Rachel. ‘And I’m especially tired of hearing you address my sister as if she were a servant.’
Before Rachel could open her mouth to answer this unexpected attack, Jonas said swiftly, ‘Your sister is as undutiful as you are yourself.’ And, catching sight of Abigail in the doorway, he stretched out an arm and dragged her forward. ‘Tell me; have you been filling your head with this ungodly drivel as well?’
‘No she hasn’t – so you can stop mauling her and confine your attention to me!’ It was a lie but Samuel cared nothing for that. ‘You can’t stop me reading, you know.’
‘Can I not?’ Jonas released his sister and gestured to the books. ‘We’ll see about that. Abigail. Take these works of the devil out into the yard and burn them.’
There was a sudden, appalled silence.
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ breathed Samuel. ‘Most of them are borrowed and you know it.’
Jonas smiled coldly.
‘That is your problem. Abigail – do as I bid you.’
She stared at him, rigid with fright. ‘No.’
‘No?’ He was thunderstruck. ‘What do you mean – no?’
‘Careful,’ taunted Samuel. ‘You’ll have an apoplexy if you’re not careful. And where would poor Rachel be then?’
‘Oh!’ gasped Rachel. Her eyes were bright and she had forgotten her backache. ‘You wicked boy! How dare you joke about such things?’
‘Take a look at your husband and you’ll know.’
‘This is unendurable!’ Wrath and indignation kindled Jonas like a brand. ‘I can scarcely believe that such dire intransigence is actually festering beneath my roof. You are as filled with deceit and sinful pride as if Satan’s mark were printed clear on your brow – and you are so wilfully obtuse that you cannot even see the damnation that lies ahead. But I see it and I will not be disobeyed by either of you.’ He wheeled on Abigail and his voice shook with temper. ‘The next time you defy me, I shall take a stick to your back. Now pick up those accursed books and destroy them. As for you,’ he swung back to Samuel, ‘while they burn, you will go down on your knees and pray for humility and proper repentance!’
‘I’m damned if I will!’ With sudden savagery, Samuel swept polish and pamphlets to the floor as he gathered the books into his arms. ‘You pray. I’m going out.’
*
‘Sam?’ hissed Abigail, tapping gently on his door. ‘Let me in.’
The house was in darkness and, for the first time since morning, peaceful. Jonas had continued to rage in Samuel’s absence and renewed the attack immediately he reappeared. Of the disputed books there had been no trace and, after uttering a selection of sarcastic retorts, Samuel had retired to his bedchamber and locked himself in.
‘Sam – please!’
The bolt was withdrawn and the door opened to admit her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, locking it again behind her. ‘You’ve had a rotten day, haven’t you?’
She nodded and, curling up on the end of his bed, pulled her robe over her bare feet.
‘He was livid when you missed prayers.’
‘Of course he was,’ replied Samuel derisively. ‘He’s pathetic. He belongs in a Royalist cartoon – the perfect example o
f a joyless, canting, self-opinionated bigot. He even talks to God as if they were on equal footing.’
‘Sam … forget Jonas for a moment, will you?’ Abigail toyed restlessly with the ends of her long, curling hair. ‘I have to get into the Castle tomorrow and I’d like you to go with me.’
He stared at her. ‘What on earth for?’
‘It’s Captain Ambrose. Bab Atkins says he was very badly burned a week ago. And, though he may be a Cavalier, he’s been good to us. So I have to know how seriously he’s hurt.’
‘It’s not a good idea, Abby,’ came the cautious reply. ‘You know that – and you know why.’
‘Obviously. But he let you out when I asked him and he s-saved me from Mr Barnes that day I told you about. He was kind, Sam – even though he didn’t have to be. I can’t just ignore that. And there may be something I can do.’
‘Yes. Yes, I see that,’ said Samuel slowly. ‘And naturally I’ll take you – in the afternoon when Jonas is busy and Rachel rests on her bed. But you mustn’t … you mustn’t let yourself become, well, fond of him. Even if he were not what he is, it would still be impossible. You do see that, don’t you?’
‘Well, of course,’ she agreed blankly. ‘But there’s no reason why I can’t try to repay a kindness, is there?’
Samuel’s reaction was duplicated on the following morning when, having only a hazy idea of what comforts might be useful to a man suffering from burns, Abigail poured out the whole story to her mother. Alice listened to an impassioned recital of Captain Ambrose’s favours and then said gently, ‘You know that I should forbid you to go?’
‘Yes.’ Abigail met her mother’s troubled gaze squarely. ‘But I hope you won’t – for I should be sorry to have to disobey you.’
‘I see.’ Alice paused. ‘I think you’d better tell me about him, Abby. Do you like him?’
‘I don’t know. He’s sarcastic and short-tempered and he swears rather a lot. He says things he shouldn’t and laughs when you wouldn’t expect it … but he’s unmistakably a gentleman, in the same way that Colonel Fiennes is. And he’s kind – someone to trust. Does that sound stupid?’
