Her Rebel Heart: A romance of the English Civil War

by Alison Stuart

  Sir John sat at the table, now cleared of Deliverance's books and Luke's papers. A bottle of wine stood at his elbow and he appeared to be engrossed in writing a report. Above him, the man’s portrait glowered at Luke as if sensing what business Luke had come about.

  He looked up. “What is it, Collyer?”

  Luke decided to come straight to the point. Sir John was not a man for idle chatter.

  “Sir, I would like to request your daughter's hand in marriage,” he said.

  Sir John straightened in the chair, his face taking on the forbidding cast of his portrait above him. “Which daughter?”

  Luke stared at the man. Which daughter? Penitence was betrothed. As far as he knew that left only one other.

  “Deliverance,” he replied.

  Sir John turned an interesting shade of puce. “Don't be ridiculous, Collyer. What on earth makes you think that I would let you marry my daughter, a man with your reputation?”

  Luke swallowed. He had played this over in his mind and in every iteration, Sir John had stood and grasped him by the hand and wished him well.

  “Sir, I assure you—”

  Sir John rose to his feet, with a finger pointed at Luke's chest “I sent you here against my better judgment. I know all about your little escapade to Ludlow and how you deliberately endangered my daughter's life. If you think for one moment that I would hand her over to you…in marriage. Marriage! My daughter marry a scapegrace such as you?” Spittle formed at the corners of Sir John’s mouth as he spoke.

  “I—” Luke got no further.

  “First you get her shot and then you send her out as bait for that bastard, Farrington to have his way with. She could have been killed, or worse. I was prepared to turn a blind eye to your lack of judgment but if I thought for a minute that you...you... if you have compromised my daughter's honor, Collyer. I warned you what would happen.”

  Luke stared at Sir John. His mind had gone completely blank and he could think of nothing to say in his defence.

  The door burst open and Deliverance raced in, her anger matching her father's.

  “That wasn't how it was, Father. Luke saved my life.”

  “Be quiet, Deliverance.” Her father roared her. “This man has taken advantage of your innocence and placed you in grave danger on more than one occasion. He is an irresponsible, womanising—”

  “I want to marry him.” Deliverance's voice rose, choked with emotion. “You are letting Penitence marry Jack Farrington.”

  “That is an entirely different case. They have been betrothed for years and Jack is a thoroughly respectable young man whereas this,” Felton waved a hand at Luke, “wastrel and whoremonger.” He straightened and ran his hands down his coat as if the gesture would erase his anger. In a more moderate tone, he said, “In the circumstance, Collyer I cannot permit you to spend another night under this roof. Barrett will take Farrington on to London. You can take the rest of your men and find service with the Earl of Essex. I never want to see your face again. I want you out of my home and away from my daughter by sundown tonight.”

  “Luke! Do something.” Deliverance turned to him.

  He knew what she wanted him to say but the words stuck in his throat. If he tried to speak the white anger that burned in his heart at the injustices just meted out to him would cause him to act intemperately. Memories of the arguments with his father flooded back, with their equally disastrous consequences. He needed to clear his head before he spoke another word.

  He turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

  “Deliverance Felton, do not move!” Sir John said before the door slammed shut.

  In the corridor he stopped and leaned his head against the cold stone of the castle wall. This was what was meant by the old proverb ‘as you make your bed, so shall you lie in it’. Womanising and drink had for so long sustained him, masking the bitterness, anger and pain of his family's rejection.

  In Deliverance he had found not only his equal but a friend, a soul mate. He straightened, hearing the sound of Sir John's wrath echoing down the corridor.

  A man fought for one's friends, gave his life for your friends, you didn't just walk away. For a lover you fought to the death. He threw open the door.

  Deliverance stood facing her father alone, tears tracking scalding courses down her face.

  “I made a grave error sending that man here,” he said. “And it grieves me that he has seduced and ruined you, daughter, but you were always of an independent mind, not biddable like your sister. It seems I must beat that sense into you that you so lack.”

  Her father moved out from behind the desk, undoing the buckle of his belt. She stared at him. Surely he didn't intend to beat her? A grown woman?

  She backed away, putting out her hand as he advanced her. “I am a grown woman with my own mind, father. You cannot beat me,” she said, surprised at how calm her voice sounded. Her father's sword and baldric hung slung over the nearest chair, well within her reach.

  She looked at her father's face, still purple with rage, as he folded the belt, preparatory to beating her. She remembered these beatings from her childhood. She had tried so hard to please him, to be more like Penitence, but it was never enough.

  In one swift movement she drew the sword from its scabbard. It came out with a slight hiss. Well-schooled in swordsmanship, she assumed a stance that Sir John would know only too well. En garde.

  “I will not be beaten like a recalcitrant child,” she said.

  Sir John took a step back. “You dare draw a weapon on your father?”

  “In self defence, yes,” she replied.

  The door crashed open.

  “I can see you seem to have the situation under control, Deliverance,” Luke’s voice came from behind her.

  The point of the sword wavered.

  “Luke, tell him.”

  “Put that sword down, Deliverance,” Luke said. “It’s never a good idea to draw a weapon on your father. I speak from experience.”

  Deliverance laid the sword on the table and moved to Luke's side. Her father appeared to be frozen, staring at her. The colour had drained from his face and she wondered if perhaps she had really scared him.

  “Where did you learn to handle a sword?” Sir John finally spoke.

  “Did you think I spent the last six months mending sheets and doing fine embroidery, Father?”

  “She's a fair shot as well,” Luke put in. She glanced at him.

  “Father, please can we talk,” Deliverance said. She swallowed and opened her mouth but Luke laid a hand on her arm as Sir John restored his belt to his breeches.

  “Sir John. I know my reputation but believe me when I say my intentions towards your daughter are entirely honourable.”

  Luke put his arm around Deliverance drawing her into him, giving her courage.

  “Father, I am over twenty-one. I do not need your consent to wed. If Luke leaves this castle today then I go with him.”

  The last sparks of defiance burned in Sir John's eyes. “If you go with him, you will be no daughter of mine. I shall disinherit you.”

  Deliverance glanced up at Luke. “Father, you have already made it quite clear that you intend for Jack and Penitence to have Kinton Lacey. That is...was the only thing in the world I cared about. You have already disinherited me.”

  Sir John pointed at Luke. “Collyer. Why do you fight for the cause of parliament?”

  Luke considered the question. “Because I believe the King has brought this country to ruin through his own stubbornness and refusal to listen to the voice of the people.”

  “What manner of man are you?”

  Deliverance held her breath. Would Luke tell her father the truth of his birth?

  “Sir, I come from a family divided in this war. It would grieve me to see a wedge placed between you and your daughter. There is enough enmity in the world without that.” He paused. “My brother is Viscount Harcourt. I hold lands in my own right in Yorkshire. Grant your consent for
Deliverance to wed me and you have my word I shall see her bestowed in a manner worthy of her station in life.

  “Harcourt, you say?” Sir John stroked his moustache. “And you daughter,” he addressed Deliverance. “Are you determined on this course of action?”

  “I am, Father.”

  Sir John sat down heavily and picked up the bottle of wine. He poured a glass and took a drink. “No.” He held up his hand at the squeak of protest that came from Deliverance. “Hear me out. I need time to think on this, daughter, and I do not take kindly to the sort of wilful disobedience you have shown me here today. Collyer…Harcourt…whatever your name is, take Farrington to London as ordered and return here. Then we will talk.”

  “Very good, sir.” Deliverance started forward but Luke caught her arm. “Deliverance, your father has spoken.”

  He propelled her out of the door, shutting it firmly behind him

  As Deliverance opened her mouth to protest, he laid his finger on her lips. As she glared at him, he smiled. “Trust me, Deliverance?”

  Chapter 25

  Luke paraded his men in the courtyard. Breast plates and helmets gleamed in the winter sunlight, faces were clean-shaven and even the faded coats looked fresh.

  Under his orders, they had taken particular care to look their very best and managed to transform themselves once again from the raggle taggle band of defenders to a smart, fighting force. Beneath the gleaming breast plate, Luke pondered his future with a heavy heart. He couldn't bear the thought that he was leaving Deliverance but he had his orders. Charles Farrington, manacled, and looking far from his sartorial best, would ride in a covered wagon. Keeping him safe until London would be a dangerous mission and his men had orders to shoot Charles at the first sign of attack.

  Luke's horse tossed its head in anticipation of being away from this terrible place where they had been confined to stables for weeks and threatened with being turned into food. Luke held the bridle and waited as Sir John Felton appeared on the stairs with Penitence and Jack beside him.

  Sir John had given him letters to deliver and he had no doubt that the one addressed to the Earl of Essex contained orders for Luke to join the Earl’s force. Felton did not want him returning to Kinton Lacey.

  Luke scanned the castle windows for Deliverance. They had decided to say their farewells in private. Deliverance had, as he expected, been sharp tongued but he had seen the brimming eyes as she turned away.

  Whatever means Felton employed to keep them apart, he would return and claim Deliverance.

  “Collyer. Your men are well turned out,” Sir John commented.

  “Thank you, sir,” Luke replied without warmth.

  “Once again, I wish to thank you all for the gallant defence of this castle,” Sir John said, hypocritically, Luke thought. “Had Kinton Lacey fallen, our cause in this county would have been lost. God speed and keep you safe.”

  Luke saluted and swung himself into the saddle. He doffed his hat, still bearing the neat round hole of Deliverance's greeting, in salute to Sir John Felton to the applause of the household and resident garrison.

  “God speed, Collyer,” Sir John said.

  Luke nodded to Sergeant Hale and the man gave the order to the men to form into file. With their two drummers beating the march, the men wheeled but before they had advanced a step, a voice came from the residence.

  “Wait!”

  Luke wheeled his horse at the sound of Deliverance's voice. She came running out of the house, one hand holding her hat on her head and the other clutching a leather satchel. Luke threw back his head and laughed as his beloved Deliverance, dressed in her men's breeches and wearing a baldric and sword, paused to plant a kiss on her father's cheek.

  Before the astonished man could react, Deliverance had run down the stairs and stood at Luke's stirrup. He took the satchel from her and extended his hand. She looked up into his eyes and smiled as she grasped his hand and he swung her up behind him. A resounding cheer from his soldiers and the Kinton Lacey garrison echoed around the courtyard.

  “Deliverance!” Sir John had found his voice. “What do you think you're doing? Get down immediately. You look ridiculous. Come down off that horse and behave in a more decorous manner.”

  Deliverance hooked her hands into Luke's belt and her body pressed against his, warm and familiar, as if they belonged together. He twisted to look into Deliverance's eyes.

  “You? Decorous?” he said.

  Deliverance looked back at her father. “I'm afraid my mind is made up, Father. I am going to follow the drum. Wherever Luke goes, I do too.”

  Her father raised his hand. “Deliverance, get down now.”

  “Luke has his orders, Father. Farewell. I will write.”

  A resounding cheer went up and Luke turned his horse back to take his place at the head of the column.

  “Collyer,” Sir John Felton roared.

  Luke turned his horse back. “Sir John?”

  “By God, you’d better take good care of her.”

  Luke smiled. “One thing I have learned, Sir John, is that she is quite capable of taking care of herself.”

  “Father, I will be a far better camp follower than I would ever be a housewife,” Deliverance said. “Please give us your blessing?”

  Sir John Felton looked around the courtyard. The unsmiling faces of the garrison glared back at him. He cleared his throat.

  “It seems I have little choice,” he said. “You will go with or without my blessing?”

  “Father, please,” Penitence added her entreaty to her Father.

  Sir John shook his head. “Then God speed and God bless,” he said, raising his right hand. “And and for His sake, if not mine, marry her, Collyer.”

  “At the first preacher I can find, Sir John,” Luke said with a grin.

  Luke nodded to Hale and, with Luke at their head, the defenders of Kinton Lacey marched out for the last time. As they passed under the gatehouse, Deliverance twisted to look back.

  “Not too late to change your mind,” he said.

  Her arms slid around his waist. “You know me. When I make my mind up, it takes a lot to change it. I love you, Luke Collyer.”

  Luke smiled. Whatever lay ahead of them would not be easy but no one could ever say it would be dull.

  Author’s Note

  While Kinton Lacey Castle and its inhabitants are fictional, this story was inspired by the extraordinary bravery of two women, Brilliana Harley, who held her husband’s castle (Brampton Bryan in the county of Herefordshire) against a besieging force for many months. Sadly her story did not have a happy ever after as she died of pneumonia shortly after the end of the siege. The second woman was Charlotte, Countess of Derby, nicknamed “Babylon” by the besieging force. The Countess of Derby held Lathom House in Lancashire for her royalist husband against the forces of parliament. Lathom House eventually fell and, like Brampton Bryan was slighted.

  The fate of the garrison at the fictional Byton Castle is based on the very real fate of another Herefordshire Castle, Hopton Castle.

  You can find out more about Brilliana Harley and Hopton Castle by visiting my blog, www.hoydensandfirebrands.blogspot.com.

  If you enjoyed Her Rebel Heart, why not pick up the first book in “The Guardians of the Crown series”…the award winning By The Sword.

  By The Sword

  Prologue

  Devon 1646

  “Thrrm. Thrrm.”

  The beat of the drum, as steady and relentless as the rain was the only sound in the village square as the wretched group of men staggered out of the church. Dirty, unshaven and reeking, they still wore the tattered vestiges of a once proud blue uniform; the shabby remnants of the King’s Army. Blinking in the light and oblivious to the rain, they stared in bewilderment and disbelief at the five hastily erected gibbets that faced them.

  The stony faced drummer continued his steady cadence as the prisoners shuffled into line. Watching from his vantage point beside his drummer, Captain Stephe
n Prescott, resplendent in the scarlet uniform of the New Model Army, scanned the line of men, seeking out the face of his nemesis.

  Little distinguished Jonathan Thornton from his men, except his height. He staggered forward with his head bowed. Only as the trooper behind him, pushed him to the end of the row, did he lift his head and Prescott smiled with vicious satisfaction at the sight of the bruised and battered face, the legacy of the savage beating his prisoner had received the night before.

  Prescott’s eyes flicked away from Jonathan Thornton to the fresh-faced boy, barely old enough to grow a beard, who stood beside him. Despite a defiant expression on his face, the boy’s hands shook with more than just the cold and the rain. Prescott summarily scanned the rest of the line and gave a curt nod of his head. The drummer rested his sticks on his drum and stared straight ahead, his face expressionless.

  A trooper stepped forward. In his hand he held pieces of straw which he fanned out. A restless murmur of dissent rose from the prisoners. The fragile pieces of straw were all that stood between them and the gibbets.

  The trooper moved slowly along the line of prisoners. The first two prisoners were lucky but their quiet self-congratulation was short lived as the third drew his straw. He gave a strangled cry but the trooper had moved on, slowly down the line. Four short straws were drawn. He reached the young cornet, one straw left in his hand. Jonathan Thornton would not have to draw.

  The boy hesitated, turning frightened eyes on the tall figure of his captain beside him. Jonathan looked up at Stephen Prescott, disbelief in his eyes.

  “Surely not the boy?” he said.

  Prescott stared back at him, his face inscrutable.

  “Draw,” he commanded the trembling boy.

  Jonathan stepped in front of his cornet.

  “Not the boy!”

  Two burly troopers moved forward and seized Jonathan, roughly pulling him away.