The Accidental Bride

by Jane Feather

  “Don’t worry about me!” Phoebe cried in an agony of apprehension. “Get Meg before they swim her.”

  Brian looked down at her for a second. Then he rode down the witch finder.

  The man seemed to freeze as the piebald stallion pounded the bank towards him, clods of earth flying from beneath his great hooves. And then the animal was rearing over him and he could see the white underbelly, the thrashing hooves above his head. He flung himself sideways, but he was a hair too late and he went down with a shriek of pain beneath a flying hoof that caught him on the shoulder. The crowd was for a moment too stunned to move, then as the stallion reared again, they jumped to all sides and Meg was alone, naked and slumped in her bonds.

  But she looked up as the horse came to a halt beside her. Brian leaned down with his sword unsheathed and slashed the rope that bound her wrists. Meg needed no instruction; she jumped for his stirrup, grabbing the hand he held down to her. Brian hauled her up to the saddle in front of him and rode through the now milling bewildered mob.

  “Up,” he said to Phoebe, holding down his hand. She grabbed it and hauled herself up, scrambling for purchase on his boot.

  “Meg . . . Meg . . . how hurt are you?” She tried to reach around Brian to touch Meg.

  “Keep still, girl!” he commanded as his horse tossed his mane with a snort.

  Phoebe retreated hastily, fighting her fear as the horse took off immediately.

  “I’ll follow you,” Olivia called. She had her hands on the dogs’ collars, holding them back as they strained towards the excitement of the mayhem on the riverbank.

  Phoebe clung to Brian’s belt as the beast hurtled up through the field, away from the river.

  The wind whistled past her ears and she could find no breath to speak, and she was too scared to let go of Brian’s belt long enough to try again to reach a comforting hand around him to Meg. It was cold, the wintery sun offering no warmth. Meg must be freezing; her own teeth were chattering, but that was aftermath rather than cold.

  Cato had just mounted his horse at the front step of the house, preparing to ride to headquarters, when Brian’s horse galloped onto the gravel sweep.

  Cato couldn’t believe his eyes. Brian held a naked woman on the saddle in front of him; behind him Phoebe clung for dear life, her face white as a sheet, her jaw clenched.

  Brian reined in so suddenly, the horse skidded, digging in his rear hooves and nearly sending Phoebe sliding over his rump. She managed to save herself just in time and rumbled sideways instead, succeeding by the skin of her teeth in landing on her feet.

  “Cato . . . my lord . . . the witch finder is come. They took us up and have hurt Meg so sorely.” The words came through violently chattering teeth, and Cato could barely make head or tail of them.

  He swung down from his horse and automatically put a steadying arm around her as she rushed up to him. He looked to where understanding might be found. “What’s going on, Brian?”

  Brian dismounted in almost leisurely fashion. “I was fortunate enough to effect a timely rescue, my lord. The witch finder and the mob were at the river. They had this woman—”

  “Who would be grateful if someone would have the decency to give her something to cover herself with,” Meg interrupted in sharp accents.

  “Oh, Meg, how thoughtless of me. Take this.” Phoebe moved out of Cato’s encircling arm and tore off her cloak. She held it up to Meg. “How badly did they hurt you?” she asked distressfully. “I could do nothing—”

  “Seems to me you did all that was needed,” Meg broke in, wrapping herself in Phoebe’s cloak. “I’m not drowned in a freezing river, am I?” She tried to smile but her mouth seemed numb and a violent convulsion of shivering ripped through her.

  “Who is this woman?” Cato demanded.

  “I can give you the answer myself, Lord Granville,” Meg declared, her tone remarkably robust. “The bastard of a witch finder didn’t take my tongue. I’m generally known hereabouts as Mistress Meg, the healer.”

  Cato grasped at a familiar straw. Phoebe had talked of such a friend in the village. A friendship he had forbidden.

  The woman looked at death’s door, wrapped in nothing but Phoebe’s cloak.

  “Come, you need to be in the warm.” He reached up and lifted her to the ground, but when he set her down, her knees buckled and she would have slid to the ground if he hadn’t supported her.

  “You there! Trooper!” He called over one of the troopers who’d been observing the scene with unabashed curiosity. “Carry Mistress Meg into the house. Ask Mistress Bisset to have a care for her.”

  “Oh, you made it safely!” Olivia was shouting as she came round the side of the house, having taken a shortcut through the home farm. The dogs bounded ahead of her. “Is Meg badly hurt?” She arrived panting. Her face was very white, her lips so pale as to be almost blue.

  “Olivia! What has happened? Are you ill?” Cato looked at his daughter in concern. “Tell me what’s happened.” He passed Meg over to the trooper and bent to take Olivia’s cold hands in his.

  “Oh, it was so frightening,” Olivia said, catching her breath on a sob. “We were in Meg’s c-cottage when the witch finder c-came for her. And they took Phoebe too, so I had to rescue her when they had her bound on the village green, but we c-couldn’t save Meg from the pricking, and then . . . then . . .” Olivia hesitated fractionally. “Brian was at the river and he rode them down and rescued Meg.”

  Cato listened to this breathless explanation in astounded fury. “Bound on the village green?” he demanded in something akin to a bellow. His wife bound on the village green! He dropped Olivia’s hands and swung around on Phoebe.

  “Please . . . it wasn’t for long,” Phoebe said, wincing at his tone. She didn’t think she could bear his anger . . . not now. She was shivering and her knees seemed to have turned to water now that the need for action was passed.

  “Really it wasn’t,” she said, hearing the plea in her voice. “I must go and tend Meg.” She turned to follow the trooper into the house.

  Cato caught her arm in a steely grip. “You are going nowhere until you’ve explained what’s going on here. None of it makes any sense to me at all.”

  “It wasn’t Phoebe’s fault, sir,” Olivia broke in passionately. “Indeed you c-can’t blame her. She was so brave. They just took her up because she tried to defend Meg.”

  “They took you up for a witch!” At last Cato grasped the reality. His hands moved to Phoebe’s shoulders and for a dreadful minute she thought he was going to shake her, there on the drive, in front of everyone.

  “I told you it was going to happen. I told you if you didn’t do something . . .” Her voice choked on a lump of tears and she massaged her throat, glaring up at him with unnaturally bright eyes.

  “Come with me!” He released her and marched into the house. Phoebe hesitated, then followed her husband in. He stalked to his study and held the door for her, gesturing she should precede him.

  Rage rode him like a jockey. The door shivered in its frame as he slammed it shut behind him.

  “So, what have you to say?” he demanded, striding to the big desk.

  “I told you it was going to happen. I told you about the rumors and that Meg was unjustly accused. If you’d stepped in earlier, it would not have gone so far. If you’d listened to me instead of talking about justice and unsavory reputations, none of this would have happened.” Her voice shook, and there was a hard nut of nausea in her belly. “You cannot blame me!” she cried, her hand going to her throat again as if she could ease the tightness that was making it difficult to breathe.

  Cato stared at her in disbelief. “You are blaming me for that shambles!” He was still carrying his riding whip, and he slashed it across the desk in livid emphasis.

  “Yes, because you wouldn’t listen to me! You’re the Justice of the Peace; no one disobeys you. I told you they were going to bring that . . . that devil incarnate into the village, and you wouldn’t listen. You
just wouldn’t listen.”

  “I forbade you absolutely to have anything to do with the woman.”

  “And you really thought I would take notice?” Phoebe threw at him. “When you were so wrong’. How could you possibly expect me to abandon my friend? You wouldn’t do so yourself!”

  Cato’s voice was suddenly quiet and cold. “Do you think I will tolerate having my wife cast into the same mold as a village woman with an unsavory reputation? Look what you’ve done to yourself!” He gestured contemptuously at her torn and filthy raiment. “You expose yourself to the filthy hands and public mortification of the village green! You are my wife! Have you no pride? Look at you. I’ve never seen such an appalling sight! And not satisfied with disgracing yourself, you dragged Olivia into the mire with you.”

  Each staccato sentence was punctuated with a slash of his whip across the desk.

  Phoebe didn’t need to look at herself. She had a very good idea of what she looked like. “Olivia made her own decisions,” she stated. “And I had no choice but to do what I did, and I don’t understand why you can’t see that. I had to defend Meg. They accused her of wearing the serpent’s tooth, but it was the same tooth I’d drawn for her a few days ago. I told you about it. Meg was wearing it in jest. Like a talisman against another toothache. And the cat isn’t a familiar, it’s a perfectly ordinary black cat.”

  This was the first Cato had heard about cats, although he did remember something about a tooth. But none of it made any difference.

  “I have no interest in your excuses. I do not know what to do with you. You refuse to honor my requests; you ignore my express orders; you rush headlong into whatever situation crops up. You never think before you act, before you speak. You sweep everyone up in your impulses. I cannot imagine whatever could have led me to think you would make a suitable wife. How you could be so unlike your sister is a complete mystery. You shared the same parents. But you have none of Diana’s poise, her grace, her innate sense of propriety. You have not the least vestige of a fine feeling, a sense of what’s appropriate. Can you imagine your sister doing anything so disgraceful?”

  And so it went on. Phoebe stood numbly and when it was over she turned and ran from his study.

  Cato stalked after her, shouting for Giles Crampton, who appeared on the instant. He’d been expecting a summons once he’d pieced together the astonishing reason for that equally astonishing scene at the front door. Lord Granville wouldn’t tolerate mob rule in his bailiwick.

  “Arrest that charlatan and have him whipped five miles from the village boundary. And make damn sure the entire village sees it. Then bring me the vicar. This is his work too. And if there are any obvious ringleaders, arrest them and throw them in the stocks.”

  “Aye, sir. Right away, sir.” Giles saluted crisply and strode off to do his master’s bidding.

  Phoebe had flown up the stairs, praying that Olivia wouldn’t be waiting for her. She couldn’t bear to see anyone. She couldn’t even bring herself to go to Meg. She had no resources left to tend anyone’s hurts but her own. She slammed the door of the bedchamber behind her and threw herself onto the bed.

  She was sprawled facedown when someone knocked at the door. “Go away!” she called, her voice scratchy.

  But the latch was lifted and the door swung open. “Forgive me, but I thought perhaps I might be able to help.”

  Brian stepped into the room, leaving the door wide open behind him. If anyone did come along, he didn’t want to risk the appearance of secrecy. “May I come in?”

  “You seem to be in already,” Phoebe said, sitting up. Her face was tear streaked, her eyes red and swollen, the once fashionable riding habit disheveled and dirty. “But please go away.”

  “You were very brave this morning,” Brian said, ignoring this. “And I know that Lord Granville can be harsh. He wouldn’t understand what you did for your friend. Believe me, I can sympathize. I’ve experienced the rough edge of his tongue on many occasions.”

  He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Unfortunately, he has not a forgiving nature.”

  “He will understand when I can explain it to him . . . when he’s not so angry,” Phoebe said, shrugging his hand from her shoulder.

  “Perhaps there’s some way to win back his approval,” Brian mused. “Some way to make him forget this morning . . . to forget such a terrible blow to his pride.”

  Phoebe winced but said nothing. She scrabbled for her handkerchief up her sleeve and, when she failed to find it, roughly swiped the back of her hand across her damp nose.

  “May I?” Brian handed her his own pristine square of lace-edged linen.

  “Thank you.” Phoebe blew her nose with great vigor.

  “No . . . no, keep it, I insist,” Brian said hastily when she made to return his now soggy property.

  “If you’re sure.” Phoebe scrunched it into a ball and shoved it up her sleeve.

  She regarded him consideringly, her tears well and truly dried. He had done sterling service himself that morning. His rescue of Meg had been nothing short of heroic. “What do you suggest?”

  Brian frowned, stroking his mouth with his fingertips. “I don’t know, but there is something that I heard . . . something that could cause trouble for Cato with his own high command if he doesn’t avert it. I don’t know if there’s any way . . . But, no, how could you possibly do anything to help him there?”

  “I can’t tell if you don’t tell me more,” she said acerbicly. “What could you possibly know about Parliament’s high command anyway?”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said dryly. “But if you don’t want my help . . .” He turned to go.

  “I didn’t say that,” Phoebe said. “I’m just not sure what kind of help you can give me.”

  He turned back to her. “Well, for a start, soak some pads in witch hazel and hold them over your eyes until the swelling goes down. Then put on one of your elegant gowns, dress your hair the way I showed you, and greet your husband as if nothing had happened. If you look guilty, he’ll continue to treat you as such. You have to brazen it out.”

  Phoebe listened to this with her head on one side. It struck her as very sound advice. She wasn’t ashamed of what she’d done.

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  Brian bowed with an ironic glint in his eyes. “Any time I can be of further service. . .” The door closed softly behind him.

  Phoebe sat down on the bed, frowning down into her lap, snuffling to clear her blocked nose. What Brian had said made sense. But how could things ever be right again? Cato’s contemptuous words buzzed in her head like a swarm of angry hornets.

  He didn’t love her. He didn’t even like her. He couldn’t tolerate her. She disgusted him. He had said nothing so brutal and yet Phoebe knew that that truth lay beneath the tirade, beneath the scathing comparison with Diana.

  Tears started anew and she bit her bottom lip hard. She would not cry again.

  The sounds of a commotion on the gravel beneath the window was welcome distraction, and she slid off the bed to look. Giles Crampton and a trooper stood before the front door, where a cavalcade of Cato’s militia were drawn up in a semicircle. Between Giles and the trooper stood the vicar, his black robes billowing in the breeze, his wide sleeves flapping with his violent gesticulations. He did not look a happy man, Phoebe thought with grim satisfaction.

  As she watched, Cato emerged from the house in his soldier’s buff leather jerkin, his sword at his hip, a short cloak swinging from his shoulders. Despite her wretchedness Phoebe felt the familiar throb as she gazed at him. Then she caught his expression as he turned to the vicar, and her spine prickled. She would not choose to be in the vicar’s place at this moment.

  She couldn’t hear what Cato said, but she could see its effect. The vicar’s self-righteous air became defensive, fearful, and then utterly crushed under the marquis’s crackling eloquence.

  At least Cato was defending her in public. And he would surely have dealt harshly with the w
itch finder. The village would never take the law into its own hands again. Phoebe looked for comfort in the reflection, but her own sense of betrayal was as sharp as the witch finder’s pins. People she had helped, people she considered her friends, had turned on her with a blind vengeance. She could still feel their hands upon her as they’d bound her wrists. It would be a long time before she would forget . . . a long time before she would go among them with the same trust again.

  Finally, with a curt order to the trooper who held the vicar, Cato mounted his horse. The vicar’s shoulders drooped; his head was almost on his breast as the trooper led him away. Giles mounted his own horse. Cato raised a gauntleted hand in signal to move forward.

  Phoebe watched the cavalcade canter up the drive, Lord Granville at its head. Her eyes stung and she turned from the window with a little gesture of defeat. So much for showing him a brave face in all her finery.

  15

  “This war is no longer against the king’s counsellors,” Cromwell declared. “It began that way. Five years ago we all believed that once the king was no longer surrounded by self-serving men who gave him evil advice, then he would rule with truth and justice. But we all know that’s no longer the issue.” His words punched forth in a faint mist of spittle, and he paused to drink from his wine cup. No one interrupted him.

  “The issue is the king himself,” he continued, snapping his cup on the table. “This king will never be a just ruler. He will always surround himself with men whose advice he wishes to hear. He will never back down from his belief that he has a divine right to rule and any who challenge that right are hell-bound traitors.”

  He glared around the long table in the farmhouse at the somber faces gathered there. His gaze fell upon one countenance in particular.

  “Granville, do you still maintain that our object in fighting this war is to return a reformed king to the throne he’s dishonored? Are we to give him the right once more to rule the subjects he treats and has always treated with such disdain?” His tone was bitter and angry.