by Stella Riley
‘No. Wait a moment.’ There was a long, meditative silence and then the Lieutenant-General said slowly, ‘Colonel Brandon … I’m told you’re a man who knows how to keep his own counsel. Is that true?’
‘I certainly hope it is, sir,’ replied Gabriel warily. He owed Cromwell a debt that he hoped to repay but not, if he could help it, through complicity in one of the Lieutenant-General’s little schemes.
Fortunately, Ireton was equally unenthusiastic.
‘I don’t question the Colonel’s discretion – but he’ll want to know what we’re doing and why. I, on the other hand, can find you an honest trooper who’ll simply do as he’s told.’
‘And let it all out in his cups afterwards,’ replied Cromwell briskly. ‘No. I think I’d rather put my faith in Colonel Brandon.’
Ireton shrugged and sat down.
‘I hope it’s not misplaced.’
‘It won’t be.’ The Lieutenant-General collected Gabriel’s deliberately wooden gaze and said, ‘With the Lord’s help Henry and I hope to intercept a particularly important letter. All we want from you is the service of an alert sentry. Would you be prepared to help us in this way?’
Gabriel didn’t feel he had much option. It was becoming a depressingly familiar sensation.
‘Naturally, sir. You have only to ask.’
And that was how, several hours later, he found himself standing in the pouring rain at the wicket-gate of the Blue Boar Tavern, in a black mood liberally laced with incredulity, waiting for a man with a saddle on his head.
*
The letter – supposedly a reply from the King to one previously intercepted from the Queen – was expected to say whether or not His Majesty intended to throw in his lot with the Scots and encourage them to invade England on his behalf. This much, since it was logical to assume that Cromwell had a spy in the King’s household, Gabriel was prepared to accept. But that the missive was travelling from Carisbrooke to France via Holborn was rather harder to believe … and that it would arrive at around ten o’clock and in such a peculiar manner, downright preposterous.
Gabriel pulled the brim of his hat down against the driving rain and sought what shelter he could between gate and wall. It was fairly obvious what Cromwell hoped to do. If he could catch the King kissing the Scots, he’d be able to end his own embarrassing courtship of the crown with a display of outraged virtue – and hope that the Army would like him better in the role of innocent dupe than that of Charles Stuart’s boot-licker.
The sound of approaching footsteps recalled him to his duty and he straightened, peering through the wet darkness towards the wicket. A large, bulky shape loomed and insinuated itself, with difficulty, through the gate. Gabriel remained perfectly still and, against all expectation, found himself stifling a laugh. Dead on cue and exactly as had been foretold, it was indeed a man with a saddle on his head – though, in view of the weather, he looked marginally less ridiculous than he might otherwise have done. It was enough, thought Gabriel, detaching himself silently from the wall, to make you wonder if the rain hadn’t been organised in advance as well.
Inside the taproom, Lieutenant-General Cromwell and Commissary–General Ireton were swilling ale like common troopers and Colonel Brandon allowed himself a brief moment in which to enjoy the spectacle. Despite the borrowed, ill-fitting uniform, Old Noll managed to appear fairly convincing. Henry, on the other hand, looked about as comfortable as a nun in a brothel. Suppressing a grin and careless of who he dripped on, Gabriel picked his way across the room and said simply, ‘He’s in the stables, saddling a horse.’
Cromwell surged to his feet, upsetting his tankard and sending a tide of beer into his son-in-law’s lap. It could have been an accident but, catching the glint in the Lieutenant-General’s face, Gabriel didn’t think it was.
Ireton didn’t think so either. His face like thunder, he shoved back his stool and stalked wordlessly to the door.
Outside in the yard, the man with the message was already leading his horse back towards the gate. Ireton advanced on him with a drawn sword and ordered him to stop.
‘Stop?’ asked the courier, surprised but not noticeably alarmed. ‘What for?’
‘Because we’ve to search everyone going in or out.’
‘We have – we have,’ agreed Cromwell, cheerily. ‘But you look like an honest fellow. Doesn’t he look like an honest fellow, Hal? I think so. I do indeed. And therefore it will probably suffice just to look through that saddle. What do you say, Hal? Wouldn’t that be enough?’
‘Yes.’ Ireton already had the saddle half-unfastened and was plainly not inclined to waste time acting. ‘Quite enough. But I think we’ll take it inside, out of this infernal rain.’
The bemused messenger was left looking helplessly at the Colonel.
‘What the devil’s going on here tonight?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ shrugged Gabriel. ‘It’s orders. That’s all I know.’
Some ten minutes later, Cromwell returned to heave the fellow’s saddle back on the waiting horse and send him on his way. Gabriel hesitated for a moment and then, with what he personally felt was forgivable curiosity, said, ‘Did you find what you were looking for, sir?’
All the apparent geniality of the past hour fell from the Lieutenant-General like a discarded cloak and his face was suddenly very grim indeed.
‘What I was looking for – yes; what I hoped for – no,’ he replied flatly. ‘I’ve spent half the last year trying to tempt the King into an accommodation that would preserve the best of our heritage and form a sound basis for the future. Tonight I’ve finally been forced to recognise that I’ll never achieve it – that Charles Stuart will never allow anybody to achieve it. In short, he’s in league with the Scots and prepared to countenance an invasion.’
*
In the last few days before he left Windsor, Gabriel put his apprehensions concerning the King to the back of his mind and concentrated on his forthcoming departure. He had told Cromwell the complete truth about his changed circumstances and was aware that, being a Yorkshireman, his immediate superior, John Lambert, would probably also discover it in due course – but that was where he hoped it would end. The only difficulty, therefore, was in excusing his prolonged absence from the only person likely to question it.
Major Maxwell held his tongue as long as was humanly possible and then, on the Colonel’s last night at headquarters, said resignedly, ‘All right. I give up. How the hell have you managed to get permission for four months out of the coop when I can’t even get four days? Is it a secret mission … or compassionate leave? Or does Old Noll just like the colour of your eyes?’
‘None of those – although the middle one is probably closest.’ Gabriel smiled faintly and reached for his wine-cup. ‘In fact, I’ve inherited some land in Yorkshire which will require my attention for a while.’
‘Have you? My congratulations.’ Eden raised his own cup. And then, ‘But my God … another Grandee in our midst?’
‘I’m afraid so. Though I don’t see why you should mind. You’re one yourself, after all.’
Reserve settled over the scarred face like a mask.
‘Only in theory.’
Gabriel resisted the temptation to remark that, if it was possible to own land only in theory, he would be glad to learn the secret of it – and, instead, said mildly, ‘Very well. By all means let’s change the subject. You may or may not be glad to know that I’ve a small job for you during my absence. It concerns your friend, Samuel Radford.’
Eden’s brows soared.
‘He’s no friend of mine. I scarcely know him.’
‘No. But you certainly know a lot about him,’ responded Gabriel. Then, with the ghost of a rueful smile, ‘The situation is this; he was arrested at Corkbush Field and I’ve half-promised a certain young lady that I’ll at least try to secure his release. The only trouble is that I haven’t time to do it.’
‘Which is where I come in, I suppose.’ The Major looked back at h
im with a species of resigned amusement. ‘Pardon me for asking – but are you sure he really ought to be released?’
‘More or less. He’s an extremely tiresome young man with a whole host of wonderful, impractical notions – but I don’t for a moment think he’d be party to an assassination. And the worst of it is that you can’t help liking him.’
‘A dangerous combination if ever I heard one,’ observed Eden calmly. Then, ‘Ah well. If it’s going to uphold your devastating reputation with the fair sex, I suppose I’d better do it. But I hope you know what you’re letting loose. Because your Mr Radford’s brother is the most fanatical hell-fire Puritan you’re ever likely to meet; and, if my information is correct, his sister ran off with one of the Cavaliers who helped hold Banbury throughout the war.’
‘Dear me.’ Gabriel leaned back and regarded his friend over folded arms. ‘They sound quite a family. And as for you … you’re better than an almanac.’
~ ~ ~
NINE
Exactly one week later, Gabriel left Mr Larkin at the Red Bear in Knaresborough and set off, grim-faced and alone, to put his head in the noose.
He found the village of Brearton without difficulty and, directed at some length by a loquacious blacksmith, eventually turned his horse’s head into the beech-canopied track that led to the gates of Ford Edge Manor. Then, since they stood open, he rode on up the gently rising ground and was rewarded with his first sight of the house … a pleasant residence of pale, ivy-clad stone with large mullioned windows, a row of gabled attics piercing the sky and a substantial, square-fronted gatehouse.
The courtyard was deserted and the location of the stables not immediately apparent. Dismounting without haste, Gabriel stood for a moment, one hand resting lightly on the saddle, and contemplated the great oak door. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he tethered his horse to a crumbling stone urn and pulled the bell.
A sound rather like the clatter of cooking pots rent the air. Gabriel winced and waited. No one came and the door remained securely shut. Reluctant to try the bell again, he debated the possibilities and lingered wistfully on the notion of retreat. Then he turned his back on the door and strode resolutely round to the side of the house in the hope of at least finding the stables.
He found a small walled garden instead… once presumably filled with flowers and shrubs until someone had conceived the notion of growing vegetables there. And, on the far side of it, where a few bare rose bushes still bordered the path, was a long sapphire cloak topped by a bright, gold head.
Gabriel checked briefly and then bore noiselessly down on his quarry until he was able to say gently, ‘Good morning, Mistress Clifford.’
The girl gasped and wheeled to face him – and he found himself gazing into a pair of startled and completely unfamiliar blue eyes. He frowned.
‘Ah. My mistake, it seems. I took you for the lady who, I suspect, is probably your sister.’
Elizabeth swallowed and clutched her cloak more securely about her.
‘M-my sister?’ she echoed blankly.
Gabriel smothered a sigh. ‘Mistress Venetia?’
‘Oh. Yes. I see.’ She eyed him with palpable confusion, absently absorbing his buff coat and tawny sash. And then, like a bolt from the blue, understanding finally dawned. ‘Oh!’
‘Precisely,’ he agreed sardonically. If the girl had looked nervous before, she now appeared positively petrified. ‘I am the unfortunate fellow you’re doubtless used to hearing referred to as the Roundhead bastard.’
A tide of crimson flooded Elizabeth’s face and, muttering something that might have been a suggestion for him to follow her but was in fact wholly incomprehensible, she set off back towards the house as if the devil was at her heels.
Gabriel wasted several seconds swearing silently up at the empty sky and then strode after her. It was plainly going to be one of those days … but then, what else had he expected?
Entering the house through a side door and lured wraithlike through narrow passageways, Gabriel eventually arrived at the foot of what he assumed was the main staircase. Another, younger girl was in the act of descending it and, seeing her, the bundle of nerves from the garden said breathlessly, ‘Oh Phoebe – thank God! You talk to him. I don’t know what to say.’ Upon which she rushed up the stairs and vanished.
For a moment there was a sort of stunned hush, broken only by sounds of unusual domestic activity from above. Then the brown-haired girl looked down on him with a severity belied by the faint quiver of her mouth and said, ‘My goodness. Whatever have you done to poor Bess?’
‘Nothing intentionally threatening, I assure you.’ He moved deliberately into the light and waited for her reaction. ‘I merely introduced myself.’
Phoebe’s hand tightened involuntarily on the bannister. Then she said obscurely, ‘Heavens! You’re him, aren’t you?’
Gabriel’s sense of humour stirred feebly.
‘Probably – though without clarification, I can’t be sure.’
She gave a gurgle of laughter, skimmed down the last few steps and subjected him to a long, critical appraisal.
‘I must say, you’re not a bit what I expected.’
‘And what was that, precisely?’
‘I’m not sure,’ replied Phoebe. And she wasn’t. Venetia had said that he was tall, dark and somewhere in his middle thirties. What she hadn’t said was that he was lightly tanned, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped … or that the thick, glossy dark hair framed a face whose chiselled bones and compelling, black-fringed grey eyes was certainly arresting enough to make most girls remember it.
‘I suppose I thought you would look older and more … more like a Roundhead.’
She realised as soon as it was out that she ought to have phrased it differently. Far from appearing offended, however, the Colonel merely raised his brows and said, ‘Oh? Well, I don’t know how many of us you’ve met – but if you were expecting, fangs, horns and cloven hooves, I can only say that your experience has been unfortunate.’
Phoebe grinned and then, in response to a loud thump from above, said, ‘You’d better come into the parlour.’
‘Willingly. If I could first stable my horse?’
‘I’ll have Sym see to it,’ came the quick reply. ‘Please go in. I won’t be a minute.’
The parlour was a pleasant room with large windows and an ornately plastered ceiling but its elegance was overlaid with an air of faint dilapidation. Gabriel surveyed it thoughtfully until Phoebe reappeared talking rapidly.
‘I’m sorry. I suppose no one answered the door to you? Mother has set all the servants to re-arranging the bedchambers, you see. But, if she hasn’t already retired with a headache and Bess has been able to tell her you’re here, she should be down in an hour or so. Sooner, if she’s satisfied with the dress she already has on. And, in the meantime, I can at least offer you a glass of wine. I’ve no idea what it is but I expect it’s quite good. Uncle James is very particular. He used to be a bishop, you know.’
His eyes alight with amusement, Gabriel accepted the glass from her and said, ‘Uncle James, I believe I have met … and also Mother and Bess. But who are you?’
‘Oh didn’t I say? I’m Phoebe. There’s Venetia, then Elizabeth and then me. Of course, Harry is the eldest of us now … but I suppose I’d better leave Venetia to tell you about him.’ She paused, frowning a little. ‘And that reminds me. I’m afraid I don’t know precisely where Venetia is. She had an argument with Mother – over the bedchambers, you know – and went off in a temper.’
‘An argument over the bedchambers?’ he asked. And thought, Oh Christ. What am I letting myself in for?
‘Yes. I know it sounds ridiculous – but Venetia did have a point. After all, it wasn’t really very tactful of Mother to start preparing the house for a wedding before … well, before we know there’s actually going to be one.’ Phoebe flushed a little but kept her gaze fixed stubbornly on his face from which all traces of amusement had now vanished. ‘I know I
shouldn’t ask – but have you decided whether or not you’re going to … to …’
‘Ask your sister to marry me?’ supplied Gabriel aridly. ‘And you’re right. You shouldn’t have asked. Unless, of course, you’re in a position to tell me whether or not Mistress Venetia will accept if I do – in which case we could leave her out of it altogether and settle the business between us.’
The flush deepened.
‘I suppose I asked for that.’
His brief flash of annoyance evaporated instantly and a vagrant smile touched his mouth.
‘Yes. I, on the other hand, needn’t have made my point with a mallet.’
‘No. And if it wasn’t for the prospect of having to see Venetia again, I daresay you wouldn’t have.’
Gabriel narrowly avoided choking over his wine.
‘Oh it’s all right,’ Phoebe assured him. ‘I know what she can be like. But she has good points too – and she never used to be so sharp. It’s because of the war and having to —’
‘Colonel Brandon,’ said a sad, faded voice from the doorway. ‘How nice. I hope my little one has been looking after you?’
Setting down his glass, Gabriel turned to face Lady Clifford and bowed.
‘Very well indeed. But I understand that I’ve called at an inopportune moment – so perhaps it would be better if I —’
‘No, no. Not at all.’ Her ladyship drifted across the room in a cloud of patchouli and sat down. She did not, the Colonel noticed, invite him to join her. ‘It is more than time we settled this unfortunate business, don’t you think?’
‘With respect, Madam, Mistress Venetia’s absence makes that rather difficult.’
‘Of course. But I’m sure she will return quite soon … and, in the meantime, there are a number of things which you and I might profitably discuss.’
‘Are there?’
