Exile's Return

by Alison Stuart

  She had sold a ring James had given her to help ameliorate their condition, but that small cache of coins had all but run out. She barely had enough coins for a couple more meals, let alone the outstanding board owed to the innkeeper. Her fingers circled the chain around her neck. It would break her heart to part with the locket, but if needs must …

  Lizzie’s patience with her small brother proved to be finite and after he fumbled the ball in his pudgy fingers once again, she let out a squawk of indignation.

  ‘You are too little! Aunt Agnes, please play with us.’

  Summoning a bright smile, at odds with her sombre mood, Agnes picked up the ball and threw it to Lizzie.

  ‘That’s enough,’ she said. ‘Let’s go back.’

  Tossing the ball in the air as she walked, Lizzie chattered about her favourite games and how they should set up a swing in the garden at Charvaley. Agnes walked beside her, holding Henry’s small hand.

  ‘Would Father mind if we used the oak tree? Oh, I forgot.’ Lizzie stopped dead, her mouth trembling and her blue eyes filling with tears.

  The ball fell from her hand and ran unregarded down the filthy street.

  A thin boy in ragged clothes stepped out of a doorway and retrieved the ball from where it had come to rest against a pile of horse excrement. He looked at it, wrinkling his nose before dunking it in a water trough.

  Lizzie flew at him. ‘How dare you touch my things, you horrible, dirty boy!’

  ‘I never … Here … ’ The boy took a step back, holding the ball in his hand.

  ‘Aunt Agnes, he tried to steal our ball. Give it back at once!’ Her blonde curls shaking with outrage, Lizzie put her hands on her hips and glared at the urchin.

  The boy seemed to be rooted to the ground, apparently unable to speak or move in the face of Lizzie’s anger.

  ‘May I be of assistance?’

  A dark shadow fell across them, and Agnes looked up to see the man she had passed on the stairs of the inn the previous day. An involuntary shiver ran down her spine as she took in his dark clothes, tanned face and the scar that ran across the right cheekbone, giving him a faintly sinister look. However, the smile that curved his lips and the twinkle in the light grey eyes alleviated his ferocious appearance.

  ‘Thank you, but I think there has been a misunderstanding –’ Agnes began.

  The boy looked up at the stranger. ‘I weren’t stealing,’ he said. ‘It rolled away and I just gave it a clean. Honest, Cap’n!’

  The man held out his hand and the boy dropped the object of dispute into it. With a courtly bow the man presented it to Lizzie. ‘Yours, I believe?’

  Lizzie had the grace to colour. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said.

  Agnes prodded her charge in the back. ‘I think you owe this boy an apology,’ she said.

  Lizzie’s back straightened and the colour in her cheeks heightened. ‘I will not apologise to this … this street urchin.’

  The dark man frowned. ‘But why ever not, mistress? He saved your ball and cleaned it for you. Didn’t you, Matt?’

  The boy, Matt, curled his lip in derision. ‘I’ve no use for a stupid ball,’ he said. ‘Why’d I want to keep it?’

  ‘Apologise, Elizabeth,’ Agnes said, employing the tone that her young charge would recognise as an order.

  Lizzie sniffed audibly and looked down at the filthy cobbles. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  Matt said nothing; he just stared at Lizzie with wide, fascinated eyes.

  The man laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Matt?’

  ‘‘Pology accepted,’ the boy responded, with the same amount of enthusiasm with which the apology had been tendered.

  The man looked up and caught Agnes’s eye with a half smile that seemed to say “Children!” She wondered what this filthy bit of street refuse had to do with the dark, elegant stranger.

  ‘Matt, I’m glad you are here. I have a task for you,’ the man said.

  The boy visibly brightened. ‘Yes, Cap’n. Anyfing I can do for you!’

  ‘Thank you for your assistance, sir,’ Agnes said with a small curtsey.

  He touched his fingers to the brim of his broad hat, around which a magnificent white feather curled.

  ‘My pleasure, mistress. Good day to you, and to you, Mistress … ?’ He bowed to Lizzie.

  Lizzie straightened and dropped a well-rehearsed curtsey. ‘Lady Elizabeth Ashby,’ she said.

  The man raised an eyebrow. ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.’

  Lizzie continued. ‘And this is my brother, the Marquis of Chesterton, and my aunt, Mistress Fletcher.’

  The man made suitable obeisance to all three distinguished personages.

  ‘I am plain Master Lucas,’ he responded, clapping a hand on the boy’s shoulder, ‘and this is Matt. If you will excuse us, Matt and I have errands to perform.’

  Lizzie gave Matt a haughty glance and he responded with a rude gesture as he walked away.

  Lizzie giggled and the three of them stood watching as the man, with his hand still on Matt’s shoulder, marched the boy into the crowd and out of sight.

  ‘Do you think he is a highwayman?’ Lizzie asked.

  ‘Good heavens, Lizzie. What makes you think that?’ Agnes enquired.

  ‘Or a pirate,’ put in Henry.

  ‘I am sure he is nothing more than a respectable merchant. It’s starting to rain. Inside now!’

  ‘Mistress Fletcher.’ The innkeeper’s wife waylaid her, handing over a folded and sealed letter. ‘Message for ye.’

  Agnes turned the letter over, her fingers tracing the seal of the Commonwealth in the heavy wax. Gathering up her skirts and her charges, she hurried back to her room before breaking the seal and scanning the contents. For a moment the words danced before her eyes as she tried to take in the meaning of what she was reading.

  She let out her breath, unaware she had been holding it. Far from being the consent to custody of the children she had expected, she had been summoned to attend a hearing of the Committee set up to determine the custody of the children of the late Lord Elmhurst and matters pertaining to his estate. The time stated was for two hours hence.

  Her heart sank. This could only mean one thing – the news would not be good.

  She took several deep breaths and turned to study her limited wardrobe. It would all be fine, she told herself. She was the children’s aunt. There could be no question of the children remaining in her care. Tomorrow, they would be on the road back to Charvaley.

  ***

  ‘I didn’t need no rescuing,’ Matt protested as soon as they were out of earshot.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Daniel replied. ‘You were about to be set upon by a girl and you would have just stood there and taken it.’

  Matt looked down at his feet, roughly shod in a pair of cracked and broken shoes through which his filthy toes poked. ‘Whatcha want me to do?’

  Daniel considered the urchin. Someone who knew his way around the rabbit warren of streets could be useful.

  ‘You can start by taking me to the Ship Inn.’

  The boy’s eyes widened. ‘The Ship Inn over by Old Bayly?’

  ‘I believe that’s where it is.’

  ‘Anywhere in London but there. That Nan Marsh has a tongue on her,’ the boy said. ‘Caught me stealing some pie one day. Told me never to show me face again.’

  ‘Well, I’m not asking you to show your face. Just take me there. What you do after that is up to you.’

  Matt stood poised for a fleeting moment between flight and compliance. When Daniel produced a coin from his purse, Matt needed no further persuasion.

  ‘This way, Cap’n’, the boy said, falling into step beside Daniel. ‘So your name’s Lucas?’ he asked.

  ‘It is,’ Daniel replied. Lucas was just one of the many false names he had used in the last five years. It now almost seemed strange to use his own name.

  ‘You a seafaring cove?’ Matt enquired.

  ‘Why do you ask?�
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  ‘Yer not all pasty and pale like the rest of us.’

  Daniel considered his new young friend. ‘If you are at all pasty and pale it is almost impossible to see under the dirt,’ he said. ‘You need a bath, Matt.’

  The boy shuddered. ‘Terrible bad for yer health, Cap’n.’

  He stopped and gestured down a street that looked like any other street in this maze of a city. Halfway along an old inn sign creaked above the narrow, cobbled way. It had once been a galleon in full sail, but age and the fetid air had mellowed it to the point where it looked like a rowboat in a storm.

  ‘Down there. I’ll wait for you ‘ere,’ the boy said.

  ‘This Nan Marsh really has got the better of you, hasn’t she?’

  The boy squatted down and pretended an interest in a pile of refuse.

  Daniel left him and, pulling his cloak around him, entered the establishment. It seemed respectable enough, the floor swept and mopped and the tables wiped. At this hour only a handful of patrons occupied the benches.

  A thin woman with a hard face looked up from scrubbing a tabletop.

  ‘What can I do for ye?’ she enquired.

  ‘An ale,’ Daniel replied.

  The woman straightened, wiping her hands on her apron as she studied him. She frowned and shook her head.

  ‘Something the matter?’ Daniel enquired, self consciously touching the scar on his face. She did not seem the sort of woman to be discomposed by a mark on a man’s face.

  ‘Nah, just for a moment, I thought you was someone else.’ She gestured at an empty table near the fire. ‘Make yerself comfortable, I’ll be right back.’

  Daniel settled himself into the well-worn chair and looked into the freshly lit fire, watching as the green wood spat and caught, sending bright sparks and wreaths of smoke up the chimney.

  ‘Here’s yer ale.’

  A man set the pot down in front of him and Daniel looked up. This time the spark of recognition was mutual. The man narrowed his one good eye, the other obscured by a silken patch.

  ‘I know you,’ the man said.

  Daniel didn’t know whether to curse or praise his luck. He should have realized that if this inn had been a habitual haunt of Kit’s, there would probably be a reason.

  ‘Eveleigh Priory, 1648?’ he ventured.

  The man sat down on the bench across from Daniel with a thump and swore. ‘God’s death. It can’t be Dan’l … nah … he’s dead … ’

  Daniel studied the man, trying to recall the name of Kit’s burly sergeant.

  ‘Marsh, isn’t it? You served with my brother.’

  The man nodded. ‘Aye, I did. Fought beside him for many a year.’ He shook his head in continued disbelief. ‘Well, well, Dan’l Lovell, as I live and breathe. You were a lad when I last saw you.’

  The woman sauntered over. ‘Jem, there’s no time for sittin’ here. There’s wood to be cut.’

  The man looked up and gestured to the woman. ‘This is me sister, Nan.’

  ‘And who’s this?’ Nan demanded, a scowl darkening her face.

  ‘Would you believe it. This ‘ere’s Kit Lovell’s brother, Dan’l, back from the dead,’ Jem responded.

  The colour drained from the woman’s face and she stared at him as if he truly were a ghost. ‘But you’re dead and buried somewhere in the godforsaken Indies.’ Nan sank down on the bench beside her brother and stared at Daniel. ‘Daniel bloody Lovell. Who’d have thought it? What’s up with your family? Descended from Lazarus?’

  ‘Now, Nan.’ Jem elbowed his sister into silence. He leaned forward on the table, his hands clasped. ‘So, Daniel, what brings you ‘ere?’

  ‘I am looking for news of my brother,’ Daniel said. ‘They told me that Kit used to come here.’

  The woman’s face closed like a door slamming. ‘Didn’t they tell you? He’s dead. They ‘anged him in ‘54.’

  Jem shook his head and looked down at his big hands, clasped together on the tabletop. ‘Dead,’ he echoed.

  Daniel cleared his throat. ‘I know Kit’s dead,’ he said. ‘I just thought maybe you could tell me a little more about the circumstances.’

  Jem Marsh heaved a sigh. ‘Got ‘imself tangled up in some sort of plot to kill the Lord Protector.’ He shook his head. ‘He was ‘ere when they took ‘im.’

  Nan glanced at her brother. ‘You’ve said enough, Jem Marsh. Truth is there ain’t much more to tell. We was right fond of ‘im but he’s dead. Don’t know and don’t care where you’ve bin all these years. Ye’ve got your own life to lead. Forget ‘im.’

  Daniel looked from one to the other. Neither appeared to be any more forthcoming, so he drained his ale and stood up.

  Nan rose and faced him. She looked him up and down and her face softened as she shook her head. ‘Ye’ve certainly got the look of your brother about you. Not as tall I wager but ye’ve the same eyes. Can’t forget Kit Lovell’s eyes; would make a woman wet ‘erself if he looked at you the right way.’

  Somewhat taken aback by the description, Daniel smiled. ‘I’ve not heard him described in quite that way before.’

  ‘Then you didn’t know your brother,’ Nan said, with what was probably intended as a saucy wink but looked rather more threatening on Nan’s hard face.

  No, I didn’t, Daniel thought. Ten years his senior, Kit had been eighteen when he had ridden off to war, and they had seen precious little of each other during the weary years of fighting. It had only been in ’48 that Kit had returned to Eveleigh and embroiled the family home in a futile action that had subjected the house to the bitter month-long siege that had ended in the death of their father and the destruction of the house.

  Kit had returned to England again in 1651, bringing with him the hopes of the young King Charles II, and this time Daniel was not going to let his brother ride away. Despite Kit’s every effort to dissuade him, Daniel had followed him to Worcester.

  That had been a foolish and fatal decision.

  He handed over some coins for the ale. Nan bobbed her head as her fingers closed over the coins.

  ‘That’ll do nicely.’

  She looked up at him and her eyes narrowed. He gained the impression that she may have been about to add something, but a rowdy group of ‘prentices fell through the door demanding ale. Nan gave Daniel a cursory nod and went to see to her customers.

  Chapter 4

  They kept Agnes waiting for more than an hour in a cold anteroom in the bowels of the old palace of Whitehall. Dour-faced clerks and red-coated soldiers passed in and out of the great oak doors, behind which a committee sat deciding the fate of two small children. With every moment that passed, her hopes faded.

  The door opened and a clerk indicated for her to enter. Her heart fell as she saw not only the Committee of three men, but Tobias Ashby. Ashby lounged against the fireplace, impeccably dressed in a scarlet coat trimmed with gold lace, which strained at the buttons across his stomach. The highly polished, metal gorget of an officer rested beneath his impeccable lace trimmed collar. His brown, thinning hair curled to his shoulder and his moustache and beard were neatly trimmed. It had been a few months since she had seen him and it occurred to her that the peacetime army suited him a little too well.

  While James gave every show of his loyalty to the new regime, his cousin had visited Charvaley many times in the last few years. James’s general ambivalence to all matters political has been so fervent that even Agnes had not suspected his more recent involvement in the royalist plans to restore the King.

  Tobias looked her up and down and inclined his head. She looked away from the supercilious smile he gave her.

  A small, balding man had centre position among the three commissioners. He neither looked up nor offered her a seat as she entered but continued to peruse the papers in front of him, which she hoped included her own petition. She tried to read upside down but failed.

  A clerk seated at the far end of the table sharpened his quill before dipping it in the inkpot.

>   ‘In the matter of the traitor the late Lord Elmhurst’s children,’ the chairman of the committee began, looking up at her at last. The clerk began to write. ‘Are you Mistress Agnes Fletcher?’

  Agnes clasped her shaking hands in front of her in an effort to control her nerves.

  ‘I am,’ she said, embarrassed by her high, tight voice.

  ‘I have before me a petition by you for custody of the children of the traitor, one Henry James Ashby aged four, Marquess of Chesterton, and the Lady Elizabeth Ann Ashby, aged seven years. I am given to understand that you are the children’s aunt?’

  ‘I am sister to the Earl’s late wife, Ann,’ Agnes said.

  ‘Your brother, George Fletcher, took up arms against the Commonwealth and died in the Lowlands in June 1652?’ another of Commissioners enquired. The man moved a few papers on the table, jabbing at one with his forefinger.

  How do they know these things?

  George had died in penury and drunken despair in Holland, leaving her quite alone in the world with his debts and no means to pay them.

  ‘He … ’ she swallowed, biting back the words, ‘he fought for the King, but my brother’s decisions in life were not mine, sir.’

  I just paid the price for them.

  ‘As a consequence of his actions, and his failure to pay the fines levied against him, his property was sequestered?’

  Agnes’s hands tightened and she swallowed. ‘He was unable to meet the fines and the property was sold, yes. As he resided on the Continent and I was homeless, Lord Elmhurst and his wife took me in. After my sister’s death, on the birth of Henry, the care of the children fell to me.’

  ‘And you feel this gives you the right to the legal custody of the children?’

  She took a deep, steadying breath, the old, well-practiced lie sticking in her throat. A small boy’s whole future depended on The Great Secret.

  ‘I am the children’s aunt by blood and the closest to a mother that the children have ever known.’

  ‘But where would you live? How would you care for them?’ one of the other commissioners asked.

  Agnes frowned, not understanding the question. ‘Henry is the rightful heir to Lord Elmhurst’s estate. We would return to Charvaley. Where else would we go?’