‘Please don’t worry, Marcus. I promise I will be careful.’
‘It there is rebellion and Monmouth is defeated—as I am certain he will be—then there will be dire consequences for any who support him.’ Marcus leaned forward, looking earnestly into her eyes. ‘If I ask for nothing else, I ask for your support—your loyalty—in this.’
A tremor ran through Catherine at his nearness. ‘Then you have it,’ she said without hesitation. ‘I will never again speak as I did last night. I give you my word.’
Marcus stared at her, looking startled and pleased and dubious, half-expecting her to return to the attack. ‘You do?’
She nodded. ‘Although you must understand that I was brought up to uphold the Protestant religion, to abhor papism.’
‘I don’t like a Catholic King on the throne any more than you do, but to oppose him at this time is tantamount to signing one’s own death warrant. I’m a Protestant, and I’m also a realist, and not a man to support a rebellion doomed to failure. Bide your time—that is my advice. James will not reign for long, but Monmouth is not the solution. He is too weak, too indecisive. I believe it will come in James’s daughter, Mary, and her husband, William.’
He got to his feet and extended his hands to her, but she ignored them and rose unassisted. His dark eyes on her face became searching. Just when she had begun to thaw a little, just when she had ceased to treat him as the dangerous alien creature who had invaded her life, he was going away. She waited for him to speak, unaware of the struggle that was taking place inside him when he looked down into her wide green eyes and hauntingly beautiful face framed by her black hair.
‘I do want to make you happy, Catherine,’ he said at length, ‘in spite of yourself if need be. When this is over and I leave the army, is there a future for us together?’
‘In all honesty, Marcus, I don’t know. Ours is not a marriage like others and I cannot readily forgive you for the manner in which you made me your wife. However, I am slowly becoming reconciled to the fact that that is how things are and I shall use the time you are away getting used to the situation. I ask you to be patient with me. I do promise to think seriously about us, for I have no wish to live the rest of my life in bitterness.’
As they rode away from the lake, both accepted that there was a change in their attitude to each other, but when Marcus, astride his mount, rode away from Saxton Court the following day in his buff coat of leather and long jackboots, his sword by his side, Catherine was unprepared for the strange mixture of emotions that filled her and the heavy sadness in her heart.
Chapter Six
C atherine emerged from the wood into a small clearing. The open ground was filled with silent people, men, women and children milling in panic. The faces were stamped with expressions ranging from fear and shock to outright anger. She paused for a moment, assessing the event. A chill raced down her spine.
The wretched figure of a man was being dragged moaning and stumbling towards the trunk of a stout tree. His hands had been forced behind his back and tied. Fiercely excited, yapping hounds circled him, and the gaping wounds on his legs told Catherine that they had already had their taste of blood.
‘Mercy! Don’t kill me!’ the man cried out, his eyes darting about in terror.
A woman ran out from the crowd and threw herself at Fenton’s feet in desperation. ‘Let him go! He is my father. For the love of God, let him go!’ she pleaded tearfully.
Fenton’s eyes were merciless as he watched one of his henchmen, a brutal-faced man with a whip in his hand, roughly push her aside.
Losing awareness of the crowd, an anger sweeping through her veins as she recalled how Elizabeth had staunchly condemned Fenton’s behaviour and now was discovering at first hand the truth of it, Catherine urged her mount forward until she was within two yards of her husband’s bailiff.
‘Mr Fenton, what are you doing?’
At the sharp, commanding sound of Catherine’s voice, heads turned and all eyes became fixed on her. Taken unawares, perhaps by the tone of her voice, Fenton looked up. His eyes became narrowed on her, his body stiff with defiance.
‘I would have thought that was perfectly obvious—although perhaps your question has to do with the reasons why I am doing it.’
‘My question was plain enough. I’ll let you judge the manner in which you choose to answer it.’
‘It’s nothing to bother you with, Lady Reresby,’ Fenton answered, inclining his head slightly in mock respect. ‘Flogging a man is a nasty, messy business, so I would advise you to ride on by. Go back to your business of running the house, and leave me to mine.’
Catherine was incensed by his calculating rudeness. ‘I do not like your tone, Mr Fenton. You are being deliberately uncivil.’ She looked down at the drooping figure that was about to be flogged. The miserable wretch was in a state of abject terror and shaking in every limb. ‘What is this man’s crime that he deserves to be beaten? What has he done?’ she commanded.
‘He was caught poaching, my lady.’
‘Poaching?’ Catherine glared at him. ‘And for that you would beat him?’
‘Poachers and their kind are not welcome. Flogging is the usual punishment for such a crime—well deserved, too.’
‘I think not, Mr Fenton. Do you so far forget yourself as to put yourself in my husband’s place? By what right do you set yourself up as judge? I believe it is for the local magistrate to mete out punishment. I command you to release this man at once. Judging by the state of him, your hounds have inflicted punishment enough.’
The bailiff’s lean cruel features were drained of colour, and the smile on his lips had faded, as if he no longer considered it worthwhile to maintain the fiction. Catherine knew the man before her was her implacable enemy. His thin face was taut and a fierce hatred for her burned in his eyes, making her realise that this incident had turned into a battle between their two selves—a battle of wits, which she must win at all costs if she wished for the respect of the people around her. She kept her icy gaze locked on his relentlessly, and he was the first to turn away.
He strode towards the poacher. ‘You’re fortunate that the lady has a gentle heart, thief,’ he growled, making an angry gesture to the man holding him. ‘Cut his bonds and let him go. Get out of my sight.’
‘Take him home and tend his wounds,’ Catherine said softly to the woman who had pleaded for his release.
‘Thank you, my lady,’ the woman said, with gratitude burning in her eyes. ‘May God bless you.’
Silence reigned as these two people shuffled away. Slowly the crowd dispersed. Catherine looked at Fenton, now mounted on his horse.
‘I do not wish to bandy words with you, Mr Fenton. As my husband’s bailiff you are in charge of the administration of the estate, so it will be run in a proper manner while he is away. I do not wish to hear of any more atrocities carried out by you. Is that understood?’
Enraged to find himself being made to look a fool by this slip of a girl, Fenton nudged his mount closer to her. ‘Perfectly, my lady,’ he sneered. ‘I must say that I am surprised at the ease and speed with which you have slipped into the role of wife of a King’s man—a man who will take up arms against those who will rise to destroy for ever the hated regime of popery and arbitrary government. You’ve got high-minded since you married his lordship. Your father would have been disappointed in you. Most disappointed.’
Catherine could not have been more thoroughly stunned had one of the surrounding ancient trees fallen on her head. She stared at Fenton as if she had begun to doubt her sanity.
‘My father? You—you knew my father?’
He nodded. ‘I knew him well.’
‘But how?’
His curled smile was sinister. ‘We belonged to the same club.’
Fenton inclined his head slightly in mock obeisance, but his malevolent smile froze Catherine to the core of her very soul.
Satisfied that his words had had their desired effect, without more ado he
turned from her. There were obscenities on his tongue that he silenced, and a seething madness filled his brain as he jerked his horse and galloped away, followed by his men and yelping hounds. All vestiges of self-restraint had been stripped from him and he vowed, with a terrible hatred, to make Barrington’s daughter pay for this. How dare she undermine his authority in front of the peasants and his own men? By God, he swore that by the time he was done, he would make her wish she had never been born.
Riding slowly back to the house, Catherine did some thinking. Images drifted across her mind like fragmented clouds being blown across the sky. She saw images of the faces of the men who had come to Riverside House to see her father—meetings, clandestine meetings after dark stretching into the early hours…meetings of Republicans.
Had Fenton been one of them? Was that why he seemed so familiar to her?
On the last day of May, the Admiralty of Amsterdam cleared all three of the Duke of Monmouth’s ships ready to sail from the island of Texel at the mouth of the Zuider Zee.
Amsterdam was traditionally Republican and thus had a natural antipathy to King James, both as a king and as a Papist. The Dutch, eager to assist those who fought for a Protestant cause, would do nothing to hinder the rebels. Many went out of their way to help them, giving them money, selling them arms, and providing shelter.
Monmouth was assured of strong support in England, and a strong ally of his, the Duke of Argyle, had set off to rally Scotland to the cause, to stir up rebellion and push out the King’s forces. He knew that he could raise an army and march towards London unopposed, together with eighty officers and men. So he landed at Lyme Regis in Dorset on the eleventh of June to the rallying cry of ‘Monmouth, Monmouth. God save the Protestant religion!’ At Lyme, the Duke of Monmouth denounced his uncle, King James, as a usurper and murderer of his father, Charles II, and declared himself Charles II’s legitimate son.
People from the middle ranks of society—those engaged in industry and commerce—exultant that their beloved Duke had come to liberate England from the Papist tyranny of his uncle James, flocked to his side. Over one hundred men from the small town of Colyton alone went to swell the ranks.
The West Country militia managed to prevent large numbers from joining the rebel army and contained the rebellion, but there were many in the militia who were Protestant themselves, who sympathised with the rebels and did little oppose them—some even going over to the rebels. However, a large number of the gentry, even the ones sympathetic to Monmouth, were not prepared to risk their necks.
Monmouth’s plans, formulated in Holland, had echoed across the water, giving the English government time to consider counter-measures. Once it was known that the Duke had landed, an Act was rushed through Parliament condemning him to death for high treason and a reward of five thousand pounds offered for his capture.
News of the Duke of Monmouth’s landing, his capture of Axminster and his progress northward, gathering strength on the way, spread like wildfire. It was a tense time, with the whole county full of confusion and disorder. It was an anxious period for Catherine, Saxton Court being so close to Taunton, where Monmouth was welcomed with jubilation amid the pealing of church bells and proclaimed king at the Market Cross.
To add to her anxiety, many of Saxton Court’s labourers left to join Monmouth’s army, among whom there was an element who, under the pretence of zeal for their country and common cause, in truth saw it as an opportunity to rob and pillage whatever they could lay their hands on.
It was men such as these that Catherine bravely faced when they arrived at Saxton Court. The intruders were aware that it was the property of Lord Reresby, who, having signed allegiance to King James, had been proclaimed an enemy and a traitor to the cause.
Twilight had fallen and the candles had been lit. Because she was to dine alone, a table had been laid in a small parlour. It was warmer than the huge dining room and curtains could be drawn to shut out the drafts. This was why she did not see the moving shapes of men approaching the house. It was Mrs Garfield who came rushing in to tell her that some men were trying to force their way inside. There was complete mayhem in the hall. Above the noise of barking dogs and shrieking servants running to and fro were the thunderous hails of blows on the main door.
‘Open the door,’ Catherine instructed Mrs Garfield. ‘We must see what they want.’
Catherine faced the formidable men who piled in wielding pistols and swords. She had no idea where Fenton was: in fact, so many men had left to join Monmouth that there were only women in the house. Never before had she so much missed Marcus’s cool mind and authority.
The man in front of the rest—middle-aged, paunchy, smelling of sweat and obviously the leader—lumbered towards where she bravely stood in the centre of the hall. Others crowded in behind him. Catherine’s body was frozen in shock, but with great effort she tried to appear calm. Beside her, Mrs Garfield was silent. These men certainly didn’t resemble soldiers.
‘My goodness. What are we to do? What do you think they want, my lady?’ Mrs Garfield whispered, her voice trembling fearfully.
‘No doubt we shall soon find out,’ Catherine replied, steeling herself for what was to come, her hands clenched in the folds of her skirt to keep them from trembling. ‘Try to stay calm. There is nothing to be gained by antagonising them. Who are you?’ she demanded.
With just six feet between them, the man with the paunch leered at her. ‘Sam Becket’s the name—from Axminster born and bred. And what do we have here?’ he jeeringly questioned. ‘How nice to meet you. You must be Lady Reresby. You’re too finely dressed to be a kitchen maid.’
‘What do you want?’ Catherine demanded, trembling but trying not to show it. ‘I am Lady Reresby and you have no business here.’
‘Those are the words of a malignant,’ Becket sneered. He turned to the men. ‘Search the house. A house such as this must have arms by the cartload.’ He looked at Catherine. ‘Any weapons we find I sequester in the name of the Duke of Monmouth. We seize what can be found from any source available.’
‘Steal is the word I would use to describe what you are doing. How dare you? I demand that you leave this house immediately.’
‘Cease your tongue. We’re the ones dishin’ out the orders. Stand aside, Lady Reresby. I’ll not ask again.’
‘Then I must advise you to be careful,’ she said sarcastically, realising that old arms, from sporting guns to old matchlocks, were already being pounced upon in the Reresby armoury. ‘The majority of what you have there are likely to be more dangerous to the user than to the enemy.’
After that everything was a complete chaotic nightmare. Footsteps pounded through the house. There was a crash as furniture was overturned and objects hit the floor. Martha, the young maid who assisted Alice with her duties, a short, rosy-cheeked girl, began weeping hysterically. There was a roaring in Catherine’s ears. At that moment any sympathy she had felt for the Duke of Monmouth’s cause vanished. It was replaced by a deep and abiding anger.
Looking around in desperation, her gaze was drawn to an ancient broadsword hanging above the fireplace that had so far escaped notice. The sight of it gave her hope. Dashing towards it, she wrenched it from its peg. Unconscious of its weight, her graceful fingers trained to etiquette now gripped the hilt of the ancient sword, as one might cling to a log in the middle of a raging current.
The weeping Martha started to scream.
‘Silence the wench.’ The order was shouted from Becket. The maid was slapped hard twice across the face. The vicious blows sent her to the floor with a groan of agony and blood pouring from her cut lip.
The sounds of the house being ransacked faded to dull confusion as something in Catherine’s mind snapped. On seeing one of her maids treated so brutally, her anger came hot and strong. The greed she saw in the men’s eyes as they carried off arms and valuables alike triggered her instincts for survival. When Becket raised his hand to silence the maid, who continued to wail, with a cry of
fury she crossed the intervening space between them.
‘You’ll not touch her again,’ she cried and raised the sword like a talisman, her anger so powerful and consuming it took over her mind. She lunged straight for his heart, but anticipating the danger he sidestepped and the blade sank into his shoulder. Catherine felt the metal grate on bone. Becket howled and reeled backwards, clutching the wound, his blood gushing through his fingers.
‘She’s struck me, the stupid bitch,’ he shouted, his face twisting with pain and fear. ‘Get the sword, for God’s sake.’
Catherine sprang away and, her sword raised on guard, she crouched, awaiting the attack. It did not come. ‘Get out,’ she hissed. ‘You have what you came for, now get out.’
A couple of men advanced towards her, but the injured man ordered them back. ‘Leave it. Get me out of here. A physician—I must get to a physician before I bleed to death.’
Catherine and the terrified servants watched them go, relieved that the incident was over. After the mayhem Saxton Court was oddly quiet. Only the quiet weeping of the injured maid broke the silence.
Her dazed mind veering away from the horror of what had occurred, Catherine put the sword down and turned to Mrs Garfield. ‘Please tend to Martha, Mrs Garfield, while I see what damage has been done and what has been taken.’
It was shortly afterwards that Archie came to tell her that most of the horses had been taken, including her own precious Melody. Only half a dozen coach horses grazing in the paddock had been missed.
Outraged that the rebels had dared to steal her most treasured possession, a fervent glitter brightened Catherine’s eyes. ‘I must find Melody. I shall go into Taunton first thing, before the Duke of Monmouth moves out and takes my horse with him. I shall procure an interview with the Duke himself if necessary—although my sympathies where Monmouth is concerned are beginning to wane in the wake of so much wanton pillaging. Melody was a gift to me from Marcus. I will get her back.’
His Rebel Bride Page 13
