A Splendid Defiance

by Stella Riley

  Very slowly, Justin unfolded his arms and moved away from the wall. His gaze remained locked with his step-brother’s and, for an instant, their mutual and implacable hatred rose like molten lava trapped in a conduit of ice. In one fluid movement, Justin drew his sword and discarded his baldric. Then, with a smile like splintered glass, he said, ‘If you talk much more, I’ll die of pure boredom.’ And launched his attack.

  Yelping, Jenny dived for cover behind an ancient box-chair – and only just in time for, a second later, her brother’s sword sliced the air where she had been as he whipped up his guard. Steel sparked on steel and Bernard felt the jarring impact of the blow shudder through his arm. Then Justin disengaged, feinted and lunged in bafflingly quick succession and Bernard gave ground before him, furiously aware that the laces on his sleeve had been cut clean through.

  It was the first surprise of many for Justin’s swordplay was a fast and disconcerting blend of Continental styles. Furthermore, he wasted no time testing his opponent’s skill but pressed an immediate, ruthless assault loaded with a hundred small tricks designed to shatter the other man’s confidence. He scratched buttons and slit cloth whilst driving Bernard into hard-pressed retreat around the great oak table.

  Booted feet rang on the stone floor. The swift, irregular chime of the swords echoed through the vaulted hall. With sweat already beading his brow, Bernard started to realise that he could not stand this pace for long.

  He tried a vicious sweeping pass and then another. His blade met nothing but the opposition of Justin’s. The grey eyes were alight with silent mockery and the point of Justin’s sword came to rest lightly against his throat before withdrawing again. Bernard retreated more swiftly, pulling down stools and torchères in his wake. Justin came nimbly over them, his sword unwavering in his hand. Bernard’s heart began to pound unpleasantly in his ears and then, with crisp clarity, Justin spoke.

  ‘Why did my father change his mind?’

  The sweat prickled cold on Bernard’s skin. He did not reply. The darting point snicked along his forearm.

  ‘Why?’ repeated Justin. ‘Did he learn the truth?’

  Again, Bernard said nothing and this time the blade scored the knuckles of his sword-hand.

  ‘Did he learn the truth?’

  Bernard’s breath was beginning to come in uneven gasps. He sucked in air and let it wheeze noisily out.

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The blades slithered into a disengage.

  ‘All of it?’

  Bernard attempted a time-thrust only to have it go awry as his sword-hilt slipped in the wetness of his hand. He swore.

  ‘All of it?’ If Justin was tiring, it did not show. His movements retained their neat economy and his breathing, though fast, was perfectly controlled. ‘About the painting and about Jenny?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bernard’s arm was aching from wrist to shoulder and his chest hurt.

  The hard mouth curled in something not quite a smile. ‘When?’

  ‘Years – ago,’ came the laboured reply. ‘In ’41.’

  Justin pushed him back towards the stairs.

  ‘How? How did he find out?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ His lungs were a hot, searing agony and his defence a leaden travesty. He parried too late and felt Justin’s blade puncture the cloth above his heart before withdrawing again. He gasped, ‘He wouldn’t say and I’m glad. You bloody bastard!’

  Justin’s teeth gleamed. He said, ‘For years I’ve carried your scars on my back and on my mind. Now it’s your turn.’ And, breaking effortlessly through Bernard’s guard, his point flashed delicately on and up through the skin and flesh of his step-brother’s cheek.

  Bernard’s sword fell clattering across the stone and he dropped to his knees, sobbing for breath, his hands clamped over the bleeding ruin of his face.

  Justin looked down on him and slowly lowered his own blade to the floor. His breathing was light and fast and his hands not quite steady as he replaced the plain, leather baldric and sheathed his stained sword. Then, walking unhurriedly to the door, he said coldly, ‘See to him, Jenny. I want him to remember me … to remember that I could have killed him any number of times in the last half hour … and to know that, next time he stands in my way, I’ll do it.’ And, with that, he was gone.

  Outside, the fog had lifted a little. He untethered his horse but, making no move to mount, stood with his fingers clenched in the coarse mane and his brow resting against the saddle, sick, tired, lacking in purpose. Then, lifting his head, he collected the reins in one hand and began to walk.

  It was quiet and the trees dripped dampness upon him. Every stone and path was achingly familiar, every stump, every root. He had spent hours here as a boy, escaping the misery and spite that lived in the house. The woods were the only place he had ever known any peace and he had not guessed, until this moment, that the desire to hold them could burn through his bones like fire. For the first time in many years he experienced a sensation of intense loneliness … and it was then that he wanted Abby.

  Abby. Her face rose up before him out of the mist; grave, trusting, gentle. If she were here, would she understand what he had just done? Or would she turn away, disgusted less by the act itself than by the violent hatred that had prompted it? But no. A faint smile touched his mouth. She wouldn’t turn away; and, though she might not understand, she wouldn’t condemn him either. And he would no longer have to bear this feeling alone.

  It was the last thought that jerked his mind back into full awareness and caused the breath to catch in his throat for it brought the astounding and unpalatable truth in its wake. He’d lured her to defy her brother solely out of a desire to make mischief … but he had come, without suspecting it, to depend on her. She had thanked him, that last day, for things she said he had given her - but for which, unwittingly, she had repaid him tenfold. She had given him the kind of peace and warmth he had not known in twenty years and had not thought he needed. But she had shown him the myth of that; and it now seemed that, from what had begun as no more than respect and an urge to protect, had grown a kind of caring that he could not understand.

  He had never been in love and what he felt now was far from being any species of grand passion. There was no overwhelming desire to discover the sweetness of her body and make it his; no tormented longing to know that his hunger was hers also. But what did undeniably exist was a subtle binding and the conviction that losing her was going to cost some small but fundamental part of himself.

  He rode back to Newark through the swiftly deepening dusk and arrived to find Rupert alone by the blazing fire.

  ‘I threw them out,’ the Prince volunteered simply, in response to Justin’s enquiring glance. ‘I got sick of hearing them babble about the amount of support I’d have if I chose to act the traitor, so I told them to leave.’

  ‘Even Prince Maurice?’ asked Justin, aware of the strong bond between the brothers.

  ‘Especially Maurice. He ought to know better – instead of which, he’s the worst of the lot.’ Rupert grinned suddenly. ‘But you can stay if you like – and if you promise not to plague me with talk about crowns and thrones. Where have you been?’

  ‘To Trent.’

  ‘Ah.’ The heavy lids were suddenly raised. ‘Sit down and tell me about it.’

  Justin sat and, in his habitually economic fashion, related the story of his day.

  When he had finished, the Prince said laconically, ‘So. And will you compound?’

  A satirical gleam lit the light eyes.

  ‘Will you let them try to make you King of England?’

  Rupert groaned. ‘No. But it’s hardly the same thing, is it? Trent is yours and you’ve a perfect right to take it.’

  ‘I know. And I want to take it,’ admitted Justin wryly. ‘But I don’t think I can stomach their damned oaths – not even tongue in cheek. I’m surprised at myself. I didn’t think I was capable of falling victim to a principle. Do you think I’m going to end
up a follower of Free-born John?’

  ‘Christ knows where you’ll end up,’ replied Rupert, yawning. ‘Do you intend going back to Banbury?’

  ‘Eventually, yes. Oddly enough, I’ve become quite fond of the place.’

  Rupert rose and eyed him from a great height.

  ‘I might have guessed. Is she pretty?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ retorted Justin without thinking. ‘She’s beautiful.’

  *

  It was three days later, through the open doorway of a mercer’s shop, that his eye was caught by the rich brilliance of apricot silk; and, following a ridiculous impulse he did not even try to deny, he walked in and emptied his pockets to buy it.

  ~ * ~

  TWENTY

  Abigail leaned her brow against the small, leaded panes of her bedroom window and wondered how much more she could bear. It had been almost a month now. Four weeks of imprisonment broken only by church on Sunday for appearance sake; twenty-nine days of being watched, harangued and prayed over; and a century of loneliness and despair since Samuel had told her of Justin Ambrose’s departure for Newark.

  It was the fifth day of November and the street outside was remarkably busy but she looked down on it without curiosity. Animation was suspended in foreboding about the future – her future – which Jonas was busy arranging but of which he had so far said nothing.

  The door opened and Samuel said softly, ‘Abby? Are you all right?’

  She turned and regarded him indifferently. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why don’t you come downstairs for a while? Jonas is out – and it does no good to sit brooding on your own, you know.’

  ‘No. But I prefer it.’ She turned back to the window. ‘You’d better go down or Rachel will tell Jonas you’re in league with me.’

  He stared helplessly at her averted cheek.

  ‘I can’t help this time, can I?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It isn’t your fault.’

  ‘So why won’t you talk to me?’

  ‘Because there’s no point. We both know I can’t escape.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. Tell me what it is you’re so afraid of.’

  Her hands clenched in her lap. ‘Marriage.’

  ‘In general?’ He frowned. ‘But that’s silly. You always knew Jonas would arrange a match for you sometime and you never minded before – except when it was Thankful Barnes, of course. And that was different.’ He paused and then said slowly, ‘It that it? You think Jonas may —’

  ‘Don’t!’ She rose, wheeling swiftly to face him. ‘Don’t say it!’

  He drew a long breath.

  ‘All right. But you’re worrying about nothing. After being turned down last March, I shouldn’t think he’d have you.’

  ‘On the contrary. He’s the one man who would.’ The dark eyes were haunted. ‘Think about it.’

  The noise from the street suddenly changed to an ominous rumble of voices, overlaid by the clattering of horses’ hooves. Samuel dived to the window and opened it, admitting a blast of icy air.

  ‘Come and look.’ He pulled Abigail down beside him on the window-seat. ‘It’s the King.’

  ‘What?’ She stiffened and leaned perilously out to see. ‘But he was at Newark.’

  ‘I know. That’s what I came up to tell you. He and his party rode into the Castle a couple of hours ago. He must be going back to Oxford. Look!’ He pointed. ‘There he is … the one in grey.’

  Abigail’s eyes swept over the cavalcade of elegantly accoutred gentlemen, searching in vain for one particular face before coming to rest on the neat, miniature person of Charles Stuart. And then disappointment faded into something sharp and unexpected as she watched him ride through the hostile, muttering crowd. He sat very straight in the saddle, looking neither to the right nor left, his face seemingly expressionless. Yet the remoteness of his dignity was somehow so forlorn that it produced the second most shattering impulse of Abigail’s life.

  ‘God protect Your Majesty,’ she called, with sweet disastrous clarity.

  Samuel jumped, choked and hauled her inside – but not before she had glimpsed the startled warmth on the swiftly upraised face.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ hissed Samuel, shutting the window with a snap.

  ‘Perhaps.’ She eyed him with a sort of confused defiance. ‘He looked so sad. I just wanted him to know that everyone doesn’t hate him.’

  ‘Is that all?’ He ran a distracted hand through his hair. ‘It seems to me that Justin Ambrose has a lot to answer for.’

  Her head drooped defeatedly.

  ‘He wasn’t there.’

  ‘Of course not. If he’s back at all, he’ll be in the Castle.’ Samuel paused grimly. ‘I do hope he’s back. I’ve a number of things I’ll enjoy saying to him.’

  ‘No!’ Abigail’s voice was unusually sharp. ‘I don’t want him told. It isn’t his fault —’

  ‘No? Whose then?’

  ‘Mine.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘He can’t help any more than you can – and I won’t have him blamed or made to feel responsible. He’s quite likely to lose his temper and do something reckless.’

  ‘Oh fine! By all means let’s preserve his peace of mind and save him from himself. It doesn’t matter who else suffers the consequences of his selfishness, does it?’

  ‘No. It doesn’t.’

  The firm simplicity of her reply stunned Samuel into silence and for a long time he stared at her as if he had never seen her before. Finally, he said slowly, ‘You’re in love with him.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her gaze was level. ‘But that doesn’t change anything.’

  ‘That rather depends, doesn’t it?’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether he loves you, too.’

  ‘He doesn’t. But he – I think he’s fond of me – in a quite different way. And if he knew about all this, he’d try to mend it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘It isn’t good!’ Suddenly she was angry. ‘He didn’t make me meet him. I did it because I wanted to - because I enjoyed being with him. And, since I don’t regret it, why should he be made to? As for the way I feel about him, that’s my business. Not yours – not even his. All I will say is that you can’t possibly disapprove of it more than Justin would if he were told. And that, if for no other reason, is why you will leave him out of it.’

  *

  Five days later, the long fuse of uncertainty finally exploded into realisation of all her worst fears, when Jonas coldly announced that she was to be married on the second Sunday in December.

  Abigail faced him, as she had done through all her weary waiting, with an air of ironic detachment.

  ‘And who,’ she asked, ‘have you found who will have me?’

  ‘Hold your tongue!’ he snapped. ‘It’s Thankful Barnes – and I want no hysteria about it this time.’

  ‘You’ll get none.’ Her skin had lost every vestige of colour. ‘I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.’

  ‘And what possible satisfaction do you think I found in having to explain that you’ve been giving yourself to an accursed Malignant?’

  ‘Since you had no need to say any such thing – a good deal, I imagine. I only hope he had the wit to strike a hard bargain. Did he?’

  His face darkened with anger.

  ‘That is not your affair.’

  ‘No? Well, whatever you’re paying, I’m sure it’s worth it. After all, if it were not for Mr Barnes, you’d have had to hunt for a beggar or a simpleton or a hunchback. And that could have taken months.’

  There was a long silence. Then, in a voice that shook, he said flatly, ‘The only man low enough to deserve you is the one who has soiled you in body and mind – and him you will never have. Thankful Barnes is too good for you and, when he comes here tomorrow, try remembering how few men would knowingly take a whore to wife.’

  Fear plucked at Abigail’s spine and she lost some of her veneer of compo
sure.

  ‘He’s coming here?’

  ‘Yes. For some mystifying reason, he wants to talk to you. So keep a dutiful tongue in your head and be grateful.’

  *

  Thankful Barnes towered over Alice, smiling blandly and twisting his hat in his hands.

  ‘I’ve already spoken to Mr Radford, ma’am. And he says I can have a few minutes alone with Mistress Abigail.’

  Alice glanced dubiously at Abby, pale and silent in her corner, and then looked back at the smith. She did not particularly like the man but neither did she understand her daughter’s aversion. He seemed harmless enough.

  ‘Under the circumstances,’ he added, with gentle significance.

  Alice flushed and struggled in a morass of half sentences.

  ‘It’s all right, Mother,’ said Abigail tonelessly. ‘If Jonas has given his permission, you’d better go.’

  After a little hesitation, Alice went out leaving the door slightly ajar behind her. The smith walked over and shut it with a little snap. Then he turned back to Abigail without any trace of the blandness that had deceived Alice and said, ‘Your brother says you’ve disgraced yourself with one of them drunken lechers from the Castle.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Abigail, employing her only small hope. ‘Does your mother know?’

  He ignored the question and said sorrowfully, ‘You didn’t ought to have done that, Abigail. That was wicked. You ought to have wed me when I asked you. Now you’ve spoiled everything.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should withdraw your offer.’ She recognised the look in those pale eyes now. She had seen the cat look that way when it cornered a mouse. ‘I’m sure your mother would prefer it.’

  ‘And you’re spoiled, too,’ he continued, just as if she had not spoken. ‘You’re not so timid any more, are you? Almost brazen, you are. Too much to say for yourself and nowhere near as humble as you should be. I don’t even think you’re grateful.’

  ‘I’m not. You must know I’m being forced to marry you. I wouldn’t do it from choice.’

  The strange gaze altered and drifted unhurriedly over her body. Then he said, ‘I’m being kind, Abigail. I’m saving you from the shame of your sin. You’ll have to learn to be grateful for that, you really will. Mother doesn’t like it, of course. But she’ll come round. And between us, we’ll save you from damnation and teach you your duty.’