by Stella Riley
Although Gabriel understood this perfectly well, it didn’t make the next two weeks any easier After politely inviting Lambert to surrender and receiving an equally polite refusal, Hamilton had marched south on July 8th to join Langdale at Carlisle while Lambert kept a watchful eye on them from Penrith. A week later, the Royalists advanced towards Penrith and, after a small skirmish, Lambert withdrew his forces to Appleby. Here, Colonel Brandon spent his thirty-fifth birthday indulging in a little hand-to-hand combat when the Scots’ advance guard made the mistake of overtaking them. Then, just as Gabriel was beginning to enjoy himself, Lambert ordered a further retreat to Barnard Castle.
There were two excellent reasons for this. The first was that Hamilton’s line of march led Lambert to believe that he intended to cross into the West Riding of Yorkshire by way of Brough and the Stainmore Pass – a move which Lambert hoped to prevent by placing himself squarely in the way; the second was that Cromwell, having finally succeeded in taking Pembroke, had despatched his own 10th Horse northwards to reinforce Lambert while he himself followed on more slowly with the Foot. And Barnard Castle was as good a place to rendezvous with the expected cavalry as it undoubtedly was to stop the Scots.
Gabriel knew this but had never been one for kicking his heels. Major Maxwell knew it too and cursed the inactivity which gave him more time than he wanted to dwell on his personal concerns. These, in fact had been weighing upon him since just before they had left Windsor; and, though he hadn’t uttered a word about them, he had been growing progressively moodier – with the result that, by the time Cromwell’s cavalry eventually arrived on the 27th, Gabriel was tired enough of black looks and monosyllabic answers to say crisply, ‘All right. What is it this time?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ The hazel gaze was warily cool.
‘And so you should. I’ll admit that my own joie-de-vivre is at a fairly low ebb, but watching you gnaw away at yourself with such dedication is enough to give anyone the marthambles. So I’ll ask you again – and for the last time. What’s the matter?’
Eden frowned, opened his mouth on a blighting denial and then appeared to change his mind. Shrugging as if the matter was of small importance but speaking in a voice which could have cut bread, he said, ‘Tabitha is marrying Ralph Cochrane at the beginning of September. And notwithstanding the fact that the entire family is to be gathered together for the event – including Kate and Toby all the way from Genoa – Tabitha wants me there as well.’
Gabriel leaned back and contemplated the Major over folded arms.
‘And what answer have you given her?’
‘None.’
‘Then don’t you think you should?’
‘Probably. But what can I say?’
‘What do you want to say?’
‘No. But I can’t do it,’ replied Eden bitterly. ‘With Father dead, I ought to be there – not just for Tabitha but for Mother. And Ralph is one of the best friends I ever had. I can’t just refuse.’
‘Then go.’
‘I can’t do that either – or at least, I don’t think I can. I’m not ready for a full-scale family reunion. Particularly not one that’s bound to take place in a positive welter of euphoria.’ He paused. ‘I’ve been hoping I’d be safe in saying I’d be there if my duties permitted. But now Pembroke’s fallen and Cromwell is on his way, I could get caught out on that one.’
‘Meaning that once Old Noll gets here, he’ll want to bring the Scots to battle without delay and that, if we win at the first stroke, you could find yourself free as a bird before the end of August?’ suggested Gabriel dryly.
‘Yes. With Cromwell here, the odds will be greatly reduced. We’re properly equipped for the task in hand – whereas Hamilton’s men are having to pick up food and ammunition along the way because they haven’t enough horses to pull their supply waggons. And our fellows are experienced campaigners – not green boys who’ve never handled a pike or musket before. All in all, I think we’ll trounce them. Don’t you?’
‘I think it very probable,’ agreed Gabriel. ‘I don’t know very much about Hamilton but the general view seems to be that he’s willing rather than able – and monumentally unlucky. Also, Lambert suspects that he may be having certain difficulties with his second-in-command.’
‘Callander?’ said Eden. ‘That wouldn’t surprise me. They say he’s not a great one for taking orders. Mind you, we might have a similar problem ourselves when Cromwell turns up. After all, Lambert is no tyro – and a local lad, to boot. He may not be especially eager to hand over the reins to Old Noll just like that.’
‘Possibly not – but he’ll do it. He’s too professional to do otherwise.’
‘Pity poor Hamilton, then.’ Eden sought a means of keeping the conversation on an impersonal level and found it. ‘How do you rate his chances of getting help?’
‘From abroad? Not very high. Now Spain has made peace with the Dutch and is able to pursue its hostilities with France instead, Mazarin is unlikely to spare any French troops. And William of Orange appears determined to remain neutral. So provided the Irish continue squabbling amongst themselves over the terms of the Cessation, I’d say Hamilton is going to have to face us as he now stands.’ Gabriel held his Major’s gaze with a faintly satiric one of his own. ‘But none of this alters your fundamental problem – which is not whether you’ll still be fighting the Scots on your sister’s wedding day, but whether you’re ever going to summon enough nerve to face up to your past. And, on present showing, it’s beginning to look as if you won’t.’
A hint of colour stained the scarred face and Eden said furiously, ‘I have faced up to it. What I don’t want to do is bloody well wallow in it.’
‘I wasn’t aware anyone had asked you to.’
‘Tabitha is – and Kate will too, given half a chance.’
‘Then let them,’ came the calm reply. ‘Let them and be done with it. You’ve been ducking the issue for four years and that’s more than enough. Moreover, if you don’t deal with it now, you never will – and it will rule your life. Is that what you want?’
‘No.’ Eden rose with sudden violence. ‘And I don’t want a barrage of well-meaning platitudes either.’
The dark brows rose and Gabriel’s expression became one of acute irritation.
‘In that case, I suggest you keep your bouts of self-pity well-hidden in future and refrain from wasting my time.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Good. Then, since it’s our night for sentry duty, you may now do a round of the outposts and check that no one is getting slack. That will be all, Major.’
The tone was one Gabriel very rarely used and it pulled Eden up short. He hesitated briefly and then, with a small, crooked smile, inclined his head and saluted.
‘Colonel,’ he said correctly. And strode from the room, closing the door behind him with a distinct snap.
*
Over the next few days, this conversation was never again referred to and, though their working relationship continued precisely as usual, a blanket of reserve – which neither tried to remove – settled over their friendship. Eden spoke of it to no one, for the simple reason that no one was close enough to him to ask. And when Wat Larkin tried probing the situation with Gabriel, he was promptly told to mind his own business for once.
As July drew to a close, Hamilton at last received his artillery, along with three thousand reinforcements and proceeded to take Appleby Castle. Then, at the beginning of August, they took to the road again, marching – as Lambert had suspected they would – towards the Stainmore Pass. Major-General Lambert sent out scouts from Barnard Castle and took all the proper measures. Consequently, when misfortunate struck, it was hard to say quite how it had happened.
The first Gabriel knew of it was when he was summoned to an urgent Council of Officers and, in a voice tight with temper, John Lambert said, ‘The unthinkable has happened, gentlemen. We appear to have lost touch with the enemy.’
A distinct chill invaded the r
oom and, for a time, no one dared say anything. It was the first rule of warfare. Always keep track of your enemy’s movements.
Gabriel finally broke the silence.
‘How?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know yet – though you may rest assured that I shall be finding out,’ replied the Major-General grimly. ‘We know they reached Brough. But then they appear to have turned south towards Kirkby Stephen – from where they could choose to go on into Lancashire or cross the Pennines by way of Wensleydale or Skipton. And since we still can’t risk bringing them to battle and are condemned to wholly preventative measures, we must now consider moving our own position; to which end I wish to withdraw to a point between Knaresborough and Leeds. From there, we can keep an eye on Skipton, Wetherby and the main road south.’ He rose and regarded them all stonily. ‘We are going to Otley, gentlemen – and as soon as possible.’
It was a long march and the route took them within three miles of Brandon Lacey. Gabriel experienced a surprisingly strong desire to pay a flying visit to Sophia and seek out Dick Carter … but reason told him that this was no time to be asking for leave of absence, no matter how briefly. And, in any case, he wasn’t in the habit of abandoning his men.
It wasn’t until they reached Otley that he realised there was another perfectly simple solution and, when he did, he wasted no time in putting it into effect.
‘Go to Brandon Lacey?’ echoed Wat. ‘Me? Why?’
‘Because I can’t go myself,’ came the succinct reply. ‘I want to know how everything’s going – the weaving, the flax, the preparations for the harvest. Everything. And if Carter has any problems he feels I should know about, I want to hear what they are.’
‘So I can go back again with your orders?’
A gleam of humour warmed the dark grey eyes.
‘Probably.’
‘I see.’ Wat spat into the fire. ‘There’s nothing else you want me to do while I’m at it, is there? Take a message to Shoreditch – find the Scots for you – stick a broom up my arse and sweep the roads?’
‘Not at the moment,’ said Gabriel. ‘But I’ll give the matter some thought. Meanwhile, you needn’t break your neck to get back here today. Tomorrow will do well enough.’
Mr Larkin snorted and stamped out. It was hard to tell whether or not he was laughing.
He returned late the following evening just as the Colonel concluded an exhausting day making sure the regiment was better housed and fed than it had been the day before.
‘Well?’ asked Gabriel, stripping off his wet coat and crossing the room in search of the ale-jug.
‘Is it?’ grumbled Wat, throwing his equally sodden hat down beside the hearth. ‘God rot the North! It never does anything but sodding rain!’
Gabriel shoved him unceremoniously into a seat by the fire and handed him a pot of ale.
‘What did Carter have to say?’
Wat half-drained the tankard, belched and looked back sourly.
‘Nothing. I didn’t see him.’
There was a small pause.
‘May I ask why not?’
‘Because your lady-wife’s back in residence – that’s why not.’
An extremely strange sensation took place behind Gabriel’s ribs. He said blankly, ‘Venetia?’
‘She’s the one you married, isn’t she?’
‘But what is she doing here in Yorkshire?’
‘How should I know? She said the cloth’s ready for market, the flax is late and pretty well everything else looks like rotting on the stalk.’ Wat fumbled in his pocket. ‘But you needn’t take my word for it. She sent you this letter.’
Gabriel accepted the sealed missive with a mixture of totally unexpected emotions which he was reluctant to name and most definitely didn’t want Wat to see. He said lightly, ‘Did she say if there was anything I could do?’
‘Not unless you can stop it raining.’
‘Ah. Then, in that case, I’ll read it later.’ He tossed the letter casually down on the table and brought the ale-jug back with him to the hearth. ‘The latest intelligence is that Hamilton is at Kendal and has been reinforced by three thousand Irishmen under Sir George Munro. Scarborough has declared for the King but Walmer Castle has finally surrendered; the Prince of Wales sailed into the Downs and seized a handful of merchant vessels for which he’s demanding ransom from the City; and both Houses have agreed on holding fresh talks with the King while the Army is conveniently occupied elsewhere.’
‘Fancy,’ grunted Wat, not in the least deceived. ‘And Lieutenant-General Cromwell?’
‘Is apparently somewhere in the vicinity of Doncaster, waiting for the artillery to catch up with him,’ replied Gabriel with what he knew was just a shade too much vivacity. ‘More ale?’
‘No. Or not here, at all events.’ Mr Larkin rose and picked up his gently-steaming headgear. ‘I reckon I’ll find a tavern. You’ll be able to read your letter then, won’t you?’
After he had gone, Gabriel communed silently with the ceiling for a few moments. Then he did what he’d been wanting to do since Wat had placed the thing in his hand. He rose and broke the seal on Venetia’s letter.
It was impersonal and to the point – if, at times, slightly ironic. Once the weaving was completed, she had sent the cloth to be dyed by John Warner in Knaresborough and she hoped to take it to York in the next week or so – Lambert and Hamilton permitting. The incessant rain looked like turning the corn-harvest into a disaster but she and Dick Carter still hoped to salvage the flax and intended to start pulling it as soon as God sent a dry day. For the rest, Phoebe was busy ridding Ford Edge of a clutch of leech-like relatives; and Sophia, suffering from a slight fever, was trailing even more shawls than usual.
One thing more, Venetia had written in conclusion. I did not come home for any nefarious reasons of my own. Nor did I come because of any quarrel with Jack or Annis or even Mistress Bryony – who, incidentally, is glowing like a dozen candles these days, for reasons which can only be guessed at. I came because I felt that, in times like these, my place is here amongst our own people. And if his Grace of Hamilton should arrive in search of assorted livestock, he will get the same reply I’d give to Lieutenant-General Cromwell.
A small smiled curled Gabriel’s mouth as he finished reading and then he walked slowly back to the hearth to stare into the fire. There was nothing in the letter which might not be read by anyone … except, perhaps, that brief, hastily-added postscript. But he had expected that – which was why his peculiar reluctance to open it in front of Wat made so little sense. As for the wholly unexpected surge of pleasure he’d felt on learning that Venetia was both close at hand and had taken the trouble to write to him, that was downright ridiculous. He was thirty-five years old, for God’s sake, not some callow boy. And yet … and yet he couldn’t remember a woman having such an effect on him in years; or not, at least, with so little cause.
Be safe, she had written. Two words – just two. But enough to make him smile and want to keep on doing so.
Upon due reflection, it was undoubtedly true that something had changed between them during the course of that last night in Shoreditch. She had tended his wounds – with surprising efficiency, too – and permitted him to sleep in her bed. To anyone else, those would be the significant factors … but Gabriel knew better. What counted – and what had made the difference, if difference indeed there was – was the fact that they had talked, honestly and with neither hostility nor flippant sarcasm, for the first time. He had discovered that, beneath the unfortunate manner which was all he’d previously seen, lay intelligence, strength and even some kindness. And the result was that they had found themselves less seriously divided than they had previously thought.
He sat down and forced himself to grasp the nettle. Was it really possible, even now, for Venetia and himself to achieve a relationship consisting of more than strained tolerance? Because if it was, it raised an immediate and rather delicate question. He had deliberately refrained from con
summating their marriage so that, if circumstances ever made it desirable, it could be nullified without too much difficulty. Until now, this had made perfect sense and been no particular hardship – and it would be stupid to change it without very careful consideration. But if he wished to commit himself to Venetia – and she to him - it was an omission which probably ought to be rectified as soon as possible.
Realising that he was going too far and too fast, Gabriel put an abrupt curb on his thoughts. All he could be sure of at this stage was that he was looking forward to his homecoming and that his next meeting with Venetia would be interesting. He folded the letter and slipped it carefully into his pocket. Then he poured himself another pot of ale and forced himself to concentrate on Major Maxwell’s meticulously tabulated duty-rosters.
*
Lieutenant-General Cromwell arrived two days later and Lambert’s troops greeted their exhausted comrades with a heartening cheer. What went on between the two commanders, however, went on strictly in private and, if Lambert felt in any sense aggrieved, he was wise enough not to show it. At any rate, the next thing Gabriel and his fellow-officers knew was that it had been decided that they would all march westwards across the Pennines and try to intercept the Scots on their progress south.
‘And that,’ remarked Gabriel to Eden, ‘is the kind of gamble that only Cromwell would suggest. We believe Hamilton now has twenty thousand men to our own nine. So I’d have thought the sensible course would be to track the Scots, whilst covering the approaches to London.’
Eden shook his head.
‘I disagree. It’s not enough just to contain Hamilton’s army. We need to put an end to the problem by defeating it. And now Cromwell’s here, we will.’
Gabriel contented himself with a thoughtful glance and said nothing more. Eden was still plainly one of the Lieutenant-General’s more wholehearted admirers. Gabriel knew how that felt. He’d been one himself until Basing House. But perhaps Eden – with other things on his mind that day – hadn’t suffered the same disillusion.
