by Robyn Carr
The Braeswood Tapestry
Robyn Carr
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Copyright
Prologue
LONDON
May 29, 1660
For nearly twenty years, England had been wracked with war; its people were emotionally ragged from religious and political unrest. There proved no method to unseat the Protectorate and restore England’s monarchy. And then Oliver Cromwell passed into a quiet and untroubled death, and simultaneously the country, exhausted by constant strife, lost the energy for war. There was a lethargy among the people and the politics that was a still, quiet bay of hope for exiled Royalists.
The mood for revolution died.
Charles Stuart II first fled from England as the Prince of Wales to keep separate from his father, the king, so that their enemies would not have the advantage of killing the king and heir with one swift blow; he remained in exile after his father’s execution to build armies to reclaim his kingdom. After fifteen years of war, deprivation, and constant travel either to form new alliances or to flee useless ones, Charles was home. And he was king.
It was his thirtieth birthday, and there was barely a resemblance to the young fellow who had gone abroad with great energy and a dream of regaining the kingdom he was born to rule. He returned fully a man and had developed strong political experience and a reputation for wisdom in ruling, even though his chief adviser, Sir Edward Hyde, chided him often for a certain lack of industry. Charles knew he would oft face criticism from this man and perhaps others, for his character was unworried, unhurried, and jovial.
It was his unique gift of tact and diplomacy that had delivered him home. In his declaration to Parliament from Breda, he promised to forgive those who had conspired against either himself or his father should they seek pardon within forty days, with the exception of only a few, who had taken a direct hand in the execution of his father King Charles. Further, the erstwhile conspirators would be allowed to retain the properties they had gained during the Revolution, again with only a few exceptions. And more, a lesson no doubt learned by Charles in his exhaustive travels, no man should be persecuted for his religious preferences, so that peace within the kingdom might finally reach all its peoples.
His tolerance on these issues was remarkable yet welcome to a tired and overburdened people. Whereas the country was torn by war that began when the king and the Parliament could not agree on their respective powers, Charles II quietly but boldly pointed out that Parliament would protect the king as the king protects them, since quite obviously one faction of government without the other produced disastrous results. After years of weary fighting, it came to that simple matter.
Through days of celebration, with cannon fire, bonfires, public dining, parades, religious ceremony, speeches, and endless protocol, Charles carried the heavy raiment of state as if they were weightless, and the glitter in his eye, the smile upon his lips, his relaxed mien seemed perpetual. His tall and majestic physique was further complemented by his gracious acceptance of sovereignty and natural good humor. He was the perfect king.
He entered his bedchamber at Whitehall on the night of his thirtieth birthday now finally and divinely ruler of three kingdoms. The noise outside was still deafening and the activity in the streets of London was unceasing. Yet Charles had reached his limit and begged off further ceremony to go to bed. He retired, giving all but one of his courtiers leave to do the same.
In the company of only one young man who could aid him in undressing, he allowed his pleased expression to vanish and his features showed fatigue.
“I promised to address the good of these people,” Charles said, as much to himself as to his companion. “I promised to let an earl keep the manor and lands he acquired in the war, and promised to return the same to a soldier, nobly bred and from a long ancestry of lords, who fought for me in Worcester. Over and over, I have sworn the same pie to two lords, neither of whom will be happy with half the pie.”
“They are all overjoyed to have you home, Sire,” the young man returned, dragging off the heavy robes and storing them with great care.
Charles was not relieved by that obvious truth. “When the leases and titles are being doled out, they may not feel such joy. And to the last, all of those who kept loyal in the lean years deserve great reward. This king must pacify the government and leaders who remained in England, yet provide reward for those who fled. It will take a clever man to cut the pie into so many equal pieces.” His voice dropped to a low, throaty whisper. “And I think they don’t realize how small the pie.”
“And you are a clever man, Sire,” the man replied, although he knew Charles was thinking out loud more than speaking to him. “Listen to the noise in the streets. Is that the sound of a discontented city?”
The sounds without were not made by the same lords and ladies who would be petitioning for their rewards, but by the commoners whose lives and needs Charles felt were yet more difficult to know. “They’d have been pleased with any king willing to forget the savage past and form a tolerant government.”
“Sire, there was no other who could.”
“But they think it does not pain me to leave my enemies unpunished. And they think I have forgotten the begging and futility of my years abroad.”
“Nay, Sire … only they will not encourage your remembrance. I think mayhaps they are as tired as you.”
Charles sat wearily on his bed and hefted a foot so that his shoe could be pulled off. While the people rejoiced in his homecoming, he began to feel a certain bitterness and regret. After so many years of fighting, negotiating, moving, and pledging alliances wherever it would aid his goal, he had simply ridden into town to take his crown. As if that destiny had always existed.
“I will never forget it, I assure you. And since I can’t change any of it, I will live with it as graciously as I can allow. But damn God’s bones, I shall never see any reason it was all necessary.”
Pulling off the second shoe, the young man took a great liberty. “But you’ve said, Sire, your trials have made you a better king in the end.”
Charles laughed quite suddenly, his natural, cynical wit coming to his aid without fail. “Of a certain, son, but I maintain, I needn’t have been quite so good.” He stood, in stocking feet, breeches, and a linen shirt, before the window of his suite and looked down on the city, chuckling. “And I’ll be most pleased if I am not forced to be greatly improved.”
The young man, having stored the shoes and sovereign articles, smiled at his king. “Should you like now to be left alone, Sire?”
Charles nodded, looking less like a king and more like a handsome middle-aged merchant when reduced to his simpler clothing. “But for one small exception. I had hoped for a special visitor. Will you see if she waits?”
The doors closed behind the departing courtier and Charles looked again at his city, mentally promising he would not leave England again. A melancholy question that had touched him during the long day was what his father had been thinking as he crossed the courtyard of his own home to be killed by his own subjects. Knowing how quickly and critically political tides could cha
nge, he vowed to be a reasonable king and not necessarily a trusting one.
His father’s demise, his own exile, and this magnificent restoration had brought one concept into glaring boldness: Life was always unpredictable and simply too valuable not to be lived fully, remorselessly, and pleasurably. He would not invite any deprivation or suffering. And he believed that if he had nothing else, he had a strong will to live.
The door to his bedchamber opened and he turned from the window to behold the visitor he had been awaiting. It was foolish, he decided, to fear she wouldn’t come. She, like so many others, was most certainly his loyal subject tonight.
Barbara Palmer, cousin to his best friend, George Villiers, stood just inside the closed chamber doors. Her beauty and wild sensuality caused the bitter lines around his mouth to vanish and he smiled in genuine pleasure. She was a tall and bold beauty with rich auburn hair and ivory skin. Most men would be intimidated by her powerful height and figure, but most men were not kings.
She let her cape fall to the floor so that he might look at more of her, and her eyes glistened with mischief and anticipation.
“The celebration was not complete without you, Barbara.”
“Then let us complete it, Sire. It all belongs to you now.”
He opened his arms to her and she went to him instantly. “Before they begin to plague me with favors, Barbara, show me some small comfort that I would not have to be king to enjoy. On the morrow I trust the petitions will begin again.”
She kissed him passionately, locking her hands into his thick dark hair. “Then, Sire,” she teased, “I will make one petition this night that you should be pleased to grant.”
Chapter One
“Go back to Dearborn,” Stephen Kerr directed his men. Two of the three riders who had accompanied him mounted immediately; the third seemed reluctant. He looked with a strained expression toward the young lass Kerr had cornered along the road. “Go,” Kerr demanded. The man slowly mounted, looked one last time in the direction of the girl, and, clicking his tongue, turned his horse with the others to ride away.
Jocelyn stood rooted to her spot, clutching her basket and watching the young upstart lord.
“Bringing your brother food?” Kerr asked, a sinister half-smile working around his mouth. “How did you propose to help him eat?”
Jocelyn flinched. “Has he been beaten badly, milord?”
“It’s the least of what he’ll get.” Kerr shrugged. “He deserves to hang.”
“No,” she gasped. “Oh, milord, have mercy. He’s just a boy, a clumsy boy. He only thought to avenge our father when he was afraid. Please …”
Stephen’s thin lips parted to expose his teeth. He loved the sound of begging peasants; he loved their subservience and fear. In due time—not too much longer—he would be lord here and the people would sell their very souls to meet his mood. Gifts and punishments would be his to dole out, not his father’s.
He looked over the maid with greedy eyes. He had traveled through her village a hundred times and had not seen her until the very day her younger brother attacked him. She had likely been hidden from his eyes by a protective family, for she was comely. And if she was typical of the farmers’ daughters there, her chastity was well guarded and she was a virgin. His mouth watered as he thought of himself with the power to conquer her.
“What would you trade for your brother’s life?”
“You would kill him? Truly, milord—”
“He attacked me,” Kerr barked. A spray left his mouth and his eyes glittered. “Stupid lot of ignorant farm animals, that’s all you people are. You will learn how to treat your lord.”
“Milord,” she cajoled, “he’s a youth half your age. He had no weapon and could do you no harm. ’Twas only his fear that our father was dead—”
“What would you trade for his life?” he demanded.
She shook her head and tears gathered in her large blue eyes. It was the worst of her luck, meeting him here on the road. She had thought to steal into the sheltered courtyard of the Dearborn estate, where she had heard Peter was tied outside the stables. Manor servants who lived in her town reported that he was unguarded but too weak to escape. Now she had learned that even the road at night was not safe from Kerr. “Milord, I have nothing—”
“Nothing?” he asked with a haughty laugh. “I see a great deal I could make use of, wench.”
Jocelyn tried to calm her quaking and slowly stretched toward him the basket of bread and fruit she carried. In an instant she knew her ploy of ignorance had not fooled him. Stephen slapped the basket out of her hand and the food spilled along the road. She jumped at the blow and stepped away. “I have nothing, milord. No money or stock.”
He leered at her with a definite expression of delight at frightening her and made no response. Money or farm animals did not interest him and she knew it before mentioning them. Her town of Bowens Ash was out of sight to her now and a considerable distance beyond the next turn of the road. She knew her screams would not be heard. He was tall, thin, and probably fleet.
She silently prayed and slowly turned from him to walk back toward her village, hoping he would only laugh or hurl insults at her back. The sting of his riding crop against her cheek brought a startled cry from her lips. She felt the wood against the back of her neck, and the thin leather straps followed the line of her jaw to lay open the tender flesh of her cheek.
She turned only slightly in his direction, and his hand was swift, tearing her bodice with one hearty tug to expose her breasts. A picture flashed through her mind of a village woman who had been found dead by the road just a few weeks past, and she knew her fate. She thought she was now meeting the murderer.
She made a quick attempt to flee, ignoring her exposed bosom and wishing for one slim chance to reach the wood, where she could dart through vines and trees back to her village. He had not played as a child among the marshes and forests and brush as poor children did. But as she would have bolted, she was thrown quickly to the ground and was rolling with him in the dust of the road, struggling and whimpering.
“Ah, lusty bitch,” he growled. He tore her clothing more, pulling at her skirt and attempting to pin her arms over her head. “Now there will be no trade. Now there is only master and slave.”
Jocelyn fought with every fiber of strength she had. The picture in her mind of the murdered woman, a mother of small children from her own village, repeated itself many times, in spite of her efforts to concentrate only on escape. There had been more murder and thievery recently than during the years of civil war they had all endured. She knew instantly that if she escaped him with only her virtue lost, it would be a gift of good fortune.
Her screams and struggles filled her head so that she didn’t hear the approach of horses and might have been trampled but for the blessing of a bright moon and Stephen Kerr’s quick reaction. He pulled himself off her to stand and be alert to whomever ventured down his road. Jocelyn pulled herself upright just as quickly, and when she would have fled into the wood, he struck her again, hard enough to send her reeling to the ground, her head pounding from the blow.
“Ho,” she heard a man’s voice bellow. The sound of the horses neared, slowed, and stopped, virtually above her. From her beaten position on the ground, she could see the dark shadow of a huge black stallion ridden by a man with a flowing cape. Behind him were riders, also darkly clad, like a body of black angels following Satan. “Master Kerr … a tryst along the road?” His deep, throaty comment was followed by a rumbling of laughter from his companions. “See if she is yet alive,” the man ordered one of his riders.
Jocelyn slowly brought herself to a sitting position, barely conscious of what was taking place all around her. It was difficult for her to focus on any of the men. Within just a few breaths, she could see that Stephen Kerr was somewhat cowed and trembling now, although he bit at them with icy words.
“Get on your way, Wescott. This is not your property.”
“And miss
my moment?” He laughed. “I’ve waited a very long time to find you without arms or riders, tumbling a maid in the dust.”
“Lay one hand to me, Wescott, and you’ll hang for certain for crimes that only wait to be proved.”
Jocelyn was helped to her feet by one of the riders, and once standing, the blood on her cheek and her torn dress were apparent in the moonlight. The man called Wescott looked down at her from astride his magnificent horse and studied the damage. He seemed to fill with rage. His arm went to the whip at the side of his saddle, and with a graceful swirl, the whip unfolded to spit at the ground in front of Stephen Kerr’s feet. The lordly fellow jumped a step with a squeal. “Mind the old wounds, Wescott. They fester still. And some doubt your right to position.”
“Do they fester?” Wescott blustered. “And who would know that better than I?”
“I had no part in your family’s tribulations,” Stephen sneered. “Would you seek to aggravate my father by an attack on me? That would only show your ignorance. I was but a boy when Worcester was fought.”
Wescott’s face paled into cold stone and his black eyes caught light off the moon and were set sparkling. He gave a brief nod, as if in mock deference to Stephen’s logic. His words were as stiff as the look on his face, spoken slowly and with measured wrath. “Of course, Master Kerr. You were no older than I.” Jocelyn noted that Stephen swallowed once, with apparent difficulty.
Westcott went on, his voice still commanding but the rage controlled. “Have you raped the lass or merely beaten her?”
“She is my property,” Kerr shouted. His voice sounded almost womanly to Jocelyn when heard against the thunder of the stranger’s.
“I believe I asked you a question, Master Kerr,” Wescott rumbled with threatening clarity.
Stephen seemed to flout the immediate threat this man posed. “Why would you care? Unless you want her for yourself.” His voice raised in giddy laughter. “Aye, a grand twist, should you fight me for a peasant whore. Do you covet my property, Wescott?”
