Circle of Pearls

by Rosalind Laker

  ‘I was younger then and didn’t understand it could never be mine. My father will leave it to Michael and it will be his son’s after him.’

  By the exaggerated carelessness of her tone he guessed it had been a painful lesson for her to learn. ‘Just because I drew up the plans for this little house before I constructed it doesn’t mean that I’m making a master-builder of myself at Oxford. Far from it! If that were all I wanted I would have apprenticed myself to one of the new architects when I was still in London. Mathematics are, and always will be, my particular field.’

  She wrinkled her nose incredulously. ‘How could you ever like sums?’

  He chuckled, slotting the first of the little tiles into place. ‘It’s far more than that. Do your arithmetic well and maybe one day a wider outlook will open up to you as it did to me.’

  ‘Impossible!’ she declared adamantly. Yet she made a mental note to try harder with her reckoning, which she did not find difficult if she applied her mind to it. She had no aim to reach his exalted state, which in any case was denied to her since she was not a boy, but she respected his advice as she did Michael’s.

  With a small hammer and some tiny tacks he fastened each of the tiles securely. He enjoyed any task that needed care, even something as simple as the one in hand, ‘If you’ve finished the chimneys you can start cleaning the glazing that I removed.’

  She did not immediately move to take up the little windows that were laid out on the table, ‘If you are not going to be able to build me a house,’ she said earnestly, returning to the earlier thread of their conversation, ‘will you promise to design me one?’

  He was amused by the fervour of her request. ‘What makes you think that my plans for it would be better than anyone else’s?’

  ‘It’s not just because of the doll’s house being so splendid.’ She was gazing intently at him. ‘You see, I know you.’

  It was impossible for her to express the inner feelings that she had, for her vocabulary, extensive though it was for her age, did not extend to a full range of aesthetic terms. She knew only that there was goodness in him as there was in her mother, a purity of spirit that nothing could taint. Therefore, it stood to reason in her view that anything he designed or made or created would reflect that quality in him and be beautiful, just as her mother’s embroidered ribbons were often so lovely it seemed as if the flowers themselves had come from the gardens and meadows to blossom there.

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ he acknowledged with a smile, ‘but I think you have paid me much honour. If ever you wish it I’ll design a house for you.’

  ‘Let’s seal our agreement in the way of Sussex country folk.’

  ‘Very well.’ He spat lightly on his palm and she did likewise. Then they slapped their palms vigorously against each other’s. He did not laugh, for he saw she was treating the ritual seriously.

  She returned her elbows to the table and her chin to her hands. ‘I’ve made up my mind where I shall live. It won’t be too far from Sotherleigh, but not too close either. I don’t suppose Michael would want me walking in every day and that is what I’d do if I were too near.’

  ‘You’re showing wisdom beyond your years,’ he remarked dryly. ‘But you are making a decision about the location of your future abode much too soon. Your husband might have entirely different ideas from yours about where to live and you’ll have to follow his guidance.’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons why I’m not going to marry. I don’t want to be told what to do all my life. In any case I don’t see anything special in being a wife. Grandmother was left a widow years ago and my parents have been separated by war yet again. I think I’ll have a place of my own as soon as Michael marries. Perhaps after all I will be in London. Somewhere near Whitehall where from my windows I’ll be able to see the King ride by. Because he’ll be at the Palace by then.’

  Such loyal convictions from a child touched him. None could be more Royalist than he, although he deplored war and the futility of it. Nevertheless it was a bitter pill that he was neither fit nor able to serve the King, for his sickly childhood had prevented him from being trained in more than the rudiments of sword-play. Totally academic, he had always combined relaxation with reading and thus never missed the pastimes more common to youth of hunting, shooting, and engagement in mock duels in readiness for the defence of honour or for war.

  ‘I’m sure it would please His Majesty greatly to know of your faith in his ultimate victory,’ he said quietly.

  She appreciated his comment and then continued in a matter-of-fact tone as if some important business had been well concluded between them. ‘That’s settled about London, then.’

  ‘I suggest we don’t anchor your abode yet. Let London be a possibility.’

  ‘I thought you liked the city.’

  ‘I do. It’s exciting and stimulating and the busiest place in Europe.’

  She flung her arms wide. ‘Then that will suit me too.’

  In the morning everybody in the house gathered on the steps to see Michael ride away. There was food in his saddlebags and gold from Katherine in his purse. He bade farewell to his mother last of all. Anne was brave, shedding no tears and waving him off with a smile, but when he had gone and she turned back into the house the smile seemed stuck on her face, for she went on smiling for the rest of the day.

  Christopher did much to appease the gloom that would otherwise have settled on the house. He took Anne and Julia fishing with him in a nearby river and another day the three of them climbed to the top of one of the Downs, he carrying the picnic. From there they could see the Channel lying in the distance like a strip of blue glass and Chichester nestling within its Roman walls, the Cathedral at its heart clearly visible. Julia made daisy chains for both her mother and Christopher and entwined another like a garland about her head. Not wanting Katherine to feel left out, Christopher hired a hackney coach to take them all into Chichester, it being too risky to use the Sotherleigh coach horses, and they dined at the Dolphin by the market cross. Katherine was able to go into neighbouring shops without too much walking and there were many purchases to be piled into the hired coach when the time came to go home again.

  Anne gave a party for Christopher, inviting local Royalist families, and among them a pretty girl whom he had met on a previous visit. He gained a few kisses from her before the evening was over.

  The days of his sojourn ran out. When he left Sotherleigh he was as well provisioned as Michael had been, and he received the same family send-off from the steps of the house.

  ‘Come back soon!’ Julia entreated, having run down the flight to stand by his horse and look up at him.

  ‘At the first opportunity,’ he promised from the saddle, ‘but I can’t say how long it will be. Work hard at your lessons, Julia.’

  Then he rode away down the drive, turning to give a last wave before the elms hid him from sight.

  Julia went up to her room to take another look at the doll’s house he had carried there that morning, having finished its repairs, including some furniture that had been damaged. She saw there was a square of folded paper on the tiny table at which Susan sat propped in a chair. She reached in and took it out to unfold it carefully. It was a minuscule plan of a house. She knew it was meant to be a forerunner of the plans he would draw up some day for the house she had asked him to design for her. He was not a man to forget a promise.

  *

  Life at Sotherleigh settled down again to its usual routine. No letters came from either Robert or Michael, but none were expected for a while, mail being unpredictable, particularly in troubled times. News of the King’s advance into England did filter through, but rumour was rife and it was difficult to discover the facts. Locally it was known that Colonel Warrender had ridden off again under Parliament’s standard to meet what was being called the Royalist insurrection by those against the King. Several Cavaliers in the vicinity of Chichester were too impoverished by the previous conflict and subsequent heavy penaltie
s imposed upon them to be able to give Charles II any much-needed support. It was the condition of many Royalists throughout the country. Robert had had to sell some land twice during the war to meet his obligations and had sold another parcel of meadowland before he left. There was also a general resentment on both sides against the Scottish army with whom the King had marched into England, for by long tradition the Scots were the enemies of Englishmen, no matter that both countries had been united with Wales and Ireland under James. Oliver Cromwell, who had engineered the execution of Charles I, had been harassing the Scots on their home ground, but had now turned his large army about and was following the King as he advanced southwards. It was only a question of time before there would be a decisive battle between them.

  Whenever any information reached Sotherleigh it was shared immediately, whether it was received in the kitchen or the parlour. Anne did not find it easy to give depressing news, but it became her duty one afternoon when all the domestic staff had gathered in the Great Hall for her to address them there.

  She told them first that she had heard that many of those Scots marching with Charles were dropping out to return home, the numbers depleting every day. ‘What is more,’ she continued when the murmurs of consternation had died down, ‘it appears that not enough Royalists are coming forward to take their places, some because of circumstances beyond their control, as has happened in our own district, and some because their own foolish pride prevents them from fighting alongside those Scotsmen who are remaining staunchly with the King. There is also the fact to be faced that we have become a war-weary nation and the prospect of a fresh onslaught of many battles and the loss of countless lives has caused many to subdue their royal allegiance for the sake of peace at any price.’ Her voice took on a stronger note. ‘All of us here can be proud that our menfolk have not shirked their duty or ignored their consciences and are with His Majesty.’

  To Anne’s surprise there came a little burst of applause from Joe, the kitchen scullion, who was, as usual, the only male present. The women servants then followed his example. Anne left them and returned to the Queen’s Parlour, somewhat overcome by the effects of the speech she had made. It was only when she awoke in the night, always restless when Robert was away, that the disturbing thought came to her that she might have inspired the lad to enlist, which was the last thing she wanted. In the morning she went straight to the kitchen to reassure herself.

  ‘Where’s Joe?’ she asked quickly, not seeing him there.

  ‘Gone, madam!’ the cook declared between annoyance and distress. ‘I thought he’d overslept and sent one of the girls to wake him. But he wasn’t in his bed and it now appears that he hasn’t been seen by anyone since yesterday evening.’

  ‘We must look for him!’ She ran herself to the stables to send the groom after him. It was a risk to let the saddle horse go beyond the gates, but a boy’s life might be at stake. The groom shook his head pessimistically.

  ‘I’ll go if you wish, madam,’ he said to her, ‘but I could comb the lanes and byways for a week and not find him. He’s unlikely to take the London road in case he’s levied into service by passing Roundheads and finds himself on the wrong side in this new war.’

  ‘Time is being wasted. Go!’

  The groom was away all day. Anne waited anxiously. When he reported back to her that evening, telling of his lack of success, he was moved by the distress in her face to offer some reassurance.

  ‘Don’t worry, madam. Joe is a sensible lad with a good head on his shoulders. He’ll take care of himself.’

  Her eyes went to the pinned sleeve where his left arm had been before the Battle of Naseby. ‘I pray to God that he comes back safely.’

  *

  Three miles away Joe was hiding in the stable loft of a Royalist house, Holly Manor. He was enjoying a good supper smuggled in to him by Henry, a stable-lad there and his friend from the days they were in a Chichester orphanage together. It had been Henry’s good luck to get work looking after horses and his own misfortune to be landed in kitchen drudgery.

  He had never liked Cook. She was permanently as red-faced as the fire in the hearth and always finding extra chores for him when he had thought his work done. No wonder he had slipped away to the stables at every opportunity, helping with the tasks there and learning to ride. His hope had been to be transferred there as he grew older, but Cook had him in her thrall and did not intend to let him go, wanting to teach him bread-making and so forth. The only way out had been to volunteer to accompany the Master of Sotherleigh to war when the call to arms came, for he thought that showing how well he could groom and care for horses on campaign would ensure stable-work when they returned home again. Then by ill luck he had contracted measles when Colonel Pallister, as the Master now was, had departed to join the King without him, putting an end to his hopes.

  It had taken him a while to recover his strength. Then he had heard on the servants’ grapevine that the eldest son of Henry’s Royalist master was off to war too, taking volunteers with him. It was his second chance to meet up with his own master and prove his worth with the Pallister horses.

  As he had known, Henry was willing enough to conspire with him. Intuition had told Joe that Mrs Pallister would never allow him to go within range of warfare at his age, and so he had made plans to leave by night in order to escape any pursuit she might organize out of concern for him. Her little speech about duty and conscience had fired a rush of patriotic feeling in him, but mostly it had convinced him that he could be certain of her forgiveness when he returned. It was this prospect of pardon as much as anything else that had caused him to clap enthusiastically.

  ‘What time do we leave in the morning, ’enry?’ he asked, mopping up with a chunk of bread the last drops of gravy in his wooden bowl. His belly was comfortably full, something he had appreciated ever since his orphanage days.

  ‘At dawn. You’d best be ’idden amongst the baggage in the cart until we meet up with another Cavalier and his party near Arundel. Then you can come out. Nobody with us will give you away and the two gentlemen will each think you belong to the other’s party.’

  Joe stretched out lazily on the straw, ‘I’m ready for some shut-eye now after missing last night’s sleep.’

  ‘I’ll wake you in good time,’ Henry promised, taking away the empty bowl and a tankard drained of its ale. Joe was snoring before he reached the ladder leading down from the loft.

  Everything went smoothly and according to plan. The eldest son from Holly Manor was a haughty fellow who would not have recognized any one of his father’s servants out of their normal environs. Nobody questioned Joe’s presence when he emerged into sight after the link-up with the other party was made. He enjoyed every minute of the long journey, proud of being given a pike to use in the event of a surprise attack being made by Roundheads out to prevent loyal men reaching the King. When danger was suspected the travelling was by night, but much of it was through the quiet countryside with only the birds and grazing cattle to observe their progress.

  The euphoria that had held sway over him since leaving Holly Manor lasted to the gates of Worcester. It was a fair city dominated by a beautiful Cathedral and holding a good defensive position, but the news to be learnt there was all bad. The King’s army was dispirited and exhausted by their long trek of twenty-three days and even with those who had joined them on the way their numbers were left at only sixteen thousand. Nobody knew how many Cromwell would set against them, but it was likely to be double that figure. Reinforcements for the King had been defeated at Wigan, and many cities had failed to give him the support he had expected. To add to his troubles, hundreds of Royalists, who would have been with them, had been betrayed by Parliamentary spies and some of the best and most experienced commanders and officers had been taken into custody.

  Joe and Henry, riding on the baggage cart, gaped at the marchers who were relaxing now as they ambled about the streets and went in and out of the taverns. Most were in tattered uni
forms and many were barefooted, having worn out whatever footwear they had started out with. In contrast, those coming from other destinations were well clad and there was an abundance of vivid-hued hat plumes and handsome coats and trimmings of silver and gold. Joe began to think about where he would find his master. As soon as he had helped Henry and the grooms stable the horses he set out on his search, asking here and there for Colonel Pallister. He tracked him down after about an hour to a small medieval house, which turned out to be the King’s lodgings with two guards on duty by the door.

  ‘I’m Colonel Pallister’s servant,’ he explained.

  They allowed him to enter and within the hall a gentleman asked him his business. ‘You can’t see him yet,’ he was told. ‘The Colonel is with the King. You may wait by the wall.’

  He stood in the place indicated, his mood one of amazement, and looked about at the modest surroundings. Who would have expected to find a king staying here?

  He did not have long to wait. A door opened and the King appeared, several gentlemen with him. Joe stared. He knew his monarch’s features from the plaque that had been plastered over in the Long Gallery, but nothing had prepared him for the height and drama of this black-haired young man with the swarthy complexion, the twinkling dark eyes in a romantic setting of long lashes under brows as thick as a tom-cat’s tail, and a thin moustache above the sensual mouth. No wonder he was known as the Black Boy, it being the custom to give such nicknames to those with remarkable hair colour, but Charles could just as easily have been the Yellow or the Red Boy had he not inherited a strain of Italian and French blood from his mother.

  ‘That’s settled then, gentlemen,’ Charles said in a deep, velvety voice as he paused, pulling on his gloves. He was wearing a buff-coloured coat, the sash crimson as were the plumes adorning his wide-brimmed black hat, and from his neck in sparkling jewels hung the insignia of the Knights of the Garter, depicting Saint George slaying the dragon. ‘And may God be with us.’