Garland of Straw (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 2)

by Stella Riley

  Fortunately, there was someone she could turn to. Sym Potter had been Kit’s groom and faithful shadow and was thus entirely to be trusted. He was also in charge of Ford Edge’s stables; and when one had somehow to provide Francis Langley with a horse, this fact was likely to be more useful than anything else.

  Venetia rode slowly into the stableyard and allowed Sym to help her from the saddle. Then, making sure they could not be overheard, she began telling him what she wanted.

  *

  The following morning dawned overcast but dry and the harvesting began with a will. Knowing that every pair of hands counted, Venetia and Phoebe donned their oldest gowns and set off to lend their aid with the lighter tasks. Phoebe, of course, was bubbling with her usual enthusiasm. Venetia was only there because she considered it her duty – and knew that neither Mother nor Elizabeth were likely to show their faces until they could be gracious and charming at the harvest supper.

  It was a long day and, by the end of it, Venetia’s hands were covered in scratches, her nails chipped and ragged and her back stiff as a board – all of which made it difficult to look forward to repeating the whole process on the morrow. Phoebe went off to bed with a song on her lips and an offer to wake Venetia at five. Venetia thanked her politely and reflected that there were times when Phoebe’s unflagging cheerfulness made one want to strangle her.

  The next day seemed even longer. Venetia gritted her teeth, despatched Sym Potter, via the Widow Jessop, to take Francs a suit of Kit’s clothes and laboured grimly on. Heaps of neatly-bound sheaves started to rise in the fields and Sym returned with the message that the Captain was tired of lurking in the heather and eager to be on his way. Venetia gave him a series of hurried instructions, set a date for the following night and then tumbled wearily into bed, wondering how she would find the energy to carry these plans through after another day like the last two.

  As it turned out, the following morning brought other worries entirely. Venetia awoke in the ghostly pre-dawn light to find Phoebe leaning over her – for once, without the vestige of a smile; and when she allowed herself to be dragged to the window, she saw why. Rain was lashing down like grapeshot.

  ‘It will all be ruined,’ said Phoebe miserably. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Venetia turned away from the window, a lead weight growing in her chest. ‘We could try bringing in what’s already been cut but, if we can’t dry it, it will go on growing in the barn. And as for the rest – it’s quite likely that this rain and wind will flatten it. Until the weather improves again, we won’t know.’

  ‘But what can we do in the meantime? There must be something!’

  ‘There is,’ came the flat reply. ‘Pray.’

  The deluge continued all day, thundering down on the roof of the house and beating against the windows. Sick with rage and anxiety, Venetia shut herself off from the rest of the household and tried to work out whether or not she could pay the next quarter’s taxes. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant task, but it was better than having to put up with her mother’s unending flow of uninformed advice and remarks which all began with the words ‘If only …’

  By the time the rain finally eased off, Venetia was fairly and depressingly sure that there would be little left in the fields worth saving but that this wasn’t the time to think about it. Whether she liked it or not, her first responsibility tonight was to Francis Langley.

  She waited until just before eleven, when it was fully dark and the house asleep, then slipped quietly out to the spinney where Sym was ready with three horses. An hour later, she was gliding wraithlike through the back door of the house on the market-place.

  Francis was waiting for her in the narrow passageway, shaved, dressed in clean clothes and looking more like his old self than when she had seen him last. His tone, however, had not varied by so much as a hairsbreadth.

  ‘Don’t think I’m ungrateful, beloved … but I shall be extremely glad to move on. That tunnel of yours was full of rats, spiders and God knows what else. And though, in years to come, it will doubtless make amusing telling, just now I’m barely past shuddering. Also, I’m exceedingly tired of groping about here by the light of one paltry candle and living off cheese and cold pies.’

  ‘I daresay you are – but it’s better than prison,’ responded Venetia bracingly. ‘And you’ll get more substantial fare at your next billet. Meg Shaw keeps a good table, I believe.’

  ‘I rejoice to hear it. Are we going now?’

  ‘In a moment. Sym’s meeting us at the bottom of Briggate with the horses, so we’ve only to get that far unnoticed. But first I wanted to ask you about these letters you’re carrying. Can you tell me who they’re for and what they’re supposed to achieve?’

  ‘Under the circumstances, it would be rather churlish of me not to, wouldn’t it?’ he shrugged. And went on to list some half-dozen prominent Royalists whose homes lay as far apart as Newark and Kent. Then he said, ‘And as for their purpose, Her Majesty is on the same road she trod five years ago, busily distinguishing those she can rely from those she can’t. The only trouble is that, between composition fines and fear for their families, even the most well-intentioned of gentlemen are unlikely to be in a position to offer anything very positive in the way of aid.’ He paused and then said, ‘Is the King still at Oatlands?’

  ‘No. After cutting the City Presbyterians down to size, the Army moved its headquarters to Putney and installed His Majesty at Hampton Court,’ replied Venetia acidly. ‘I gather Cromwell is still trying to persuade him to sanction the Heads of the Proposals while the Parliament is simultaneously offering a rehashed version of the same scheme they put forward eight months ago at Newcastle. Ah yes – and there’s a rumour that His Majesty is also entertaining the Scots which, if it’s true, means that he now has a third string to his bow.’

  A faint frown entered the blue eyes.

  ‘And you consider that a good thing?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Not necessarily. The more options the King feels he has, the more he’s inclined to vacillate. That, in my humble opinion, is what lost us the war.’

  ‘But if he can obtain concessions by pitting one faction against the other —’

  ‘If he can,’ said Francis. ‘But do you honestly think they’ll go on letting him? And, that being so, it seems to me he’d be better off settling for the suitor offering the best terms. In short, the one willing and able to put the crown back on his head.’

  Venetia surveyed him coolly.

  ‘You’ve changed your tune, haven’t you? I don’t recall you being quite so ready to compromise five years ago.’

  ‘No. But defeat teaches you that it’s better to save something than lose all. And I,’ he finished blandly, ‘am now a realist of epic proportions. Shall we go?’

  Outside the night was black as sin. Cautioning Francis to remain silent and keeping close to the wall, Venetia led the way out of the market-place and into Castlegate. Lights still showed at the windows of the Green Dragon and an inebriate chorus of ‘Cuckolds All In A Row’ drifted raggedly into the street from the open doorway. Venetia quickened her pace and nearly lost her presence of mind along with her balance when a cat shot, yowling, under her feet.

  ‘Well done,’ murmured Captain Langley in her ear. ‘Most women would have screamed.’

  ‘Not to mention quite a few men,’ she hissed back. ‘Come on – before we’re seen.’

  The brooding bulk of the Castle’s east gate loomed to their right and Francis peered curiously up at it. Then, since it was too dark to see very much, he turned his back on it and dutifully followed Venetia. They rounded the corner into Gracious Street and descended the hill to the point where the road traversed the town ditch; there Venetia swung off to the right and came to an abrupt stop.

  Francis cannoned unwarily into the back of her and opened his mouth to apologise. A vicious jab from her elbow changed his mind and a horse whinnied from somewhere near at hand.
>
  ‘Sym?’ whispered Venetia.

  ‘Here, Mistress.’ The groom’s face rose up, a faint pale blur in the blackness. ‘We’ll need to think on, though. There’s soldiers on bridge.’

  She drew a sharp breath.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Hard to say. I’ve only seen three but like as not there’ll be others in t’alehouse.’

  ‘Damn!’

  Venetia thought fast. They could make their way down to the Nidd and try fording it at the weir but, thanks to the recent rain, the river was high and moving faster than usual. Also, that route took them directly below and in full view of the Castle. All in all, with a few small embellishments, her first plan was probably safer.

  She said, ‘All right. We’ll have to bluff our way through. Fetch me that flask of brandy we packed in the Captain’s saddlebag, will you?’

  ‘Brandy?’ enquired Francis hopefully.

  ‘We don’t want them to get a good look at you, so it will be best if you’re drunk.’

  ‘Willingly, my loved one.’ Laughter rippled through his voice. ‘I’ll even sing, if you like.’

  ‘Cuckolds all awry? I think not. In fact,’ said Venetia, taking the flask from Sym and anointing Francis with its contents, ‘I’d feel better if you were unconscious.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to bob me on the noll, dear heart.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure I won’t.’

  Five minutes later, after a hurried consultation, they rode slowly down to the lower bridge over the Nidd and its three burly guardians. With Venetia bringing up the rear and Sym beside him holding his reins, Francis lay slumped over his horse’s neck, alternately warbling and detonating into its mane.

  Hail good fellow, I drink to thee

  Pardonnez hic! je voozompree

  To all good fellows wherever they hic!

  With never a penny of money

  ‘No – and never likely to have either so long as there’s brandy to be had,’ scolded Venetia shrilly with more than a trace of local accent. ‘But I’ll put a hitch in your gallop, my lad. It’s written that the way of transgressors shall be hard. And if the Lord won’t see to it, I’ll do it myself!’

  ‘Halt!’ One of the troopers moved forward with a lantern while his colleagues levelled their muskets. ‘Stand and identify yourselves.’

  Sym cast an apparently nervous glance at Venetia and then said woodenly, ‘Nathaniel Benson and his lady-wife returning to Spofforth with their servant.’

  ‘At this hour?’ The tone was suspicious. ‘How come?’

  ‘Because my husband’s been in this den of iniquity too long already!’ Her hood pulled tight around her face so that not a vestige of hair showed, Venetia rode into the light and gestured scathingly to Francis. ‘Look at state of him! He should’ve been home from York three days since – not loitering here, squandering hard-earned money while his business goes to dogs.’

  The trooper scratched his head and thought about it while Francis continued mumbling musically to his horse.

  ‘Ah. Been on a bit of a binge, has he?’

  ‘No. Steeping himself in wickedness and vile corruption is what he’s been doing! Those who aren’t strong in the Lord are prey to devil’s lures. And no matter how hard I try to put fear of God into him, he’s still weak as water.’

  Shall pay for the sot … shot … whatever it is

  With never a hic! hic! of money,’ crooned Francis.

  ‘Be quiet, you drunken looby!’ Reaching out, Venetia cuffed him hard about the head. ‘You stay away wi’out so much as a word, so I have to leave our children and come looking for you – and what do I find? You’re not just sodden with drink – as if that wasn’t bad enough – oh no! You’re cavorting shamelessly with lewd, half-naked women. Whores of Babylon! And I’d just like to know how much of our hard-earned brass that cost!’

  Francis made an oddly strangled sound and began to slide gently from the saddle while Venetia continued to rant. Grinning, one of the troopers laid down his musket and obligingly helped Sym to heave him upright, murmuring, ‘Do this often, does he?’

  ‘Often enough,’ muttered Sym. And, with a jerk of his head, ‘She drives him to it, nagging bitch.’

  ‘What’s that?’ snapped Venetia.

  ‘I was just saying you’ve a heavy cross to bear, Mistress,’ offered the trooper, stepping back and eyeing her with a sort of cautious admiration. ‘But it’ll do you no good talking to the gentleman now. I reckon he’s a bit too far gone to hear you.’

  ‘Very likely,’ she agreed darkly. ‘But he’ll be sober soon enough – and sorry too, if I have anything to do wi’ it. Now … are you going to let us pass – or have you nowt better to do than annoy honest folk?’

  ‘Just doing our duty, Mistress.’ The fellow with the lantern stepped back and gestured to his comrades to do the same. ‘There’s Malignant fugitives abroad hereabouts.’

  ‘Then you’d best get back to looking for them, hadn’t you?’ retorted Venetia waspishly. And, setting her horse in motion, led her little party away across the bridge to the open road beyond.

  They rode up the hill, round the bend and down again in a silence broken only by a series of gentle hiccups. Then, when Sym pulled up at a point where a track led off to their right through the forest, Francis finally sat up and gave way to the mirth that had been consuming him.

  ‘S-such talent, darling. I don’t know which was better … the script or the performance.’

  The moon peered fitfully from behind a cloud, giving Venetia a glimpse of a bright, laughter-flushed face.

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘Now that you mention it – yes. But time’s pressing and this is where I must leave you. Sym will guide you from here.’

  The amusement evaporated instantly.

  ‘While you ride home alone in the dark? I think not.’

  ‘Then you’d better revise your ideas,’ she responded coolly. ‘For reasons you may possibly be able to work out, I need to be at home before dawn and if I come with you, I won’t be. Also without Sym you’ll have to take the main roads and I don’t want to have gone through all this for nothing. Consequently, I am riding back alone and you are following Sym to Wetherby. And that is final.’

  Francis eyed her thoughtfully. Even plainly dressed and white with fatigue, she was as beautiful as ever; but he was beginning to realise that, in other ways, she had changed dramatically. He said slowly, ‘Venetia … what’s wrong?’

  A bright, brittle smile invested her face.

  ‘Everything,’ she said. ‘Absolutely everything. But since there’s nothing either you or anyone else can do to help, you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t elaborate.’ The quality of her smile altered fractionally. ‘Good luck, Francis – and God keep you.’

  And, without waiting for his reply, she turned her horse’s head towards the forest and set off on the lonely ride home.

  ~ ~ ~

  SIX

  Though not quite as bad as she had feared, the results of the harvest were poor enough to give Venetia a number of sleepless nights. And the discovery that the country as a whole had fared little better was no comfort. There was, moreover, still no word from either Harry or Ellis – or even Captain Peverell; and by the middle of September, with Lady Clifford becoming daily more fractious and Elizabeth impersonating an Early Christian Martyr, Venetia could feel herself slowly becoming unravelled.

  For a long time she tried hard to keep her feelings to herself – mainly because she did not expect airing them to do much good. But then, on the evening of a day when little had gone quite right, Lady Clifford unwisely piled on the last straw.

  ‘I’ve been thinking that we might perhaps ask Lawyer Crisp to call,’ she said, setting a stitch in the piece of embroidery which she picked up each evening but somehow never succeeded in finishing. ‘After all, it is two months since the will was read and he may now have more information for us.’

  Ve
netia looked up from her ledgers and kept her gaze carefully blank.

  ‘About what, exactly?’

  ‘About Colonel Brandon’s intentions. Naturally.’

  The music that Elizabeth and Phoebe had been making on lute and virginals trickled to a stop and there was a brief, telling silence. Venetia laid down her quill. ‘Yes. I daresay he may. But I wasn’t aware that you were particularly interested in whether the Colonel plans to resign from the Army and settle at Brandon Lacey.’

  ‘Don’t be difficult, dearest.’ Lady Clifford set another stitch and gave a plaintive smile. ‘I was referring to the Colonel’s intentions with regard to yourself.’

  ‘Ah … I see. You’re thinking that, if he’s decided to honour me with a proposal of marriage, he may have communicated the fact to Mr Crisp.’

  ‘Well, one can’t help wondering.’

  ‘No, Mother.’ Venetia came rather abruptly to her feet. ‘You can’t help wondering. I, on the other hand, would rather not think of it until I absolutely have to – and that, thank God, is not yet.’

  ‘But the uncertainty! Surely —’

  ‘You think I like it any better than you? I don’t. I just find it preferable to betrothing myself to that man.’ She drew a deep, unsteady breath. ‘Have you any idea at all what it is you’re asking of me?’

  ‘My dear child!’ Her ladyship’s face became a picture of hurt affront. ‘I have taken the greatest care not to ask anything of you.’

  ‘No. You’ve just dropped endless hints,’ returned Venetia bitterly. ‘So why not come straight out and say what you mean for once? For the sake of everyone’s future security and to preserve both Harry’s inheritance and Elizabeth’s betrothal, you want me to forget Ellis and marry a man who, until eight short weeks ago, you wouldn’t have allowed through the front door. Isn’t that so?’