‘And would that be so very foolish?’
Catherine shook her head slowly. Marcus had made long and lingering love to her, with an exquisite, restrained gentleness. He had called her his love, but he had not told her that he loved her, and more than anything she wanted to hear him say it.
Marcus knew what she wanted, just as he knew it was folly to think the words, let alone say them, at this time. He gazed down at her. Ever since he had brought her to Saxton Court he had been tormented by her elusiveness. She fascinated and intrigued him. The joy he had felt at finally conquering her had been equalled by the pleasure she had given him.
Reaching out, he turned her face to his, wanting to see her eyes. ‘Look at me, Catherine.’ When she raised her eyes to his they had brightened with a luminous intensity. ‘Our marriage, what we have, is special to me. You are truly my wife and desire can only heighten what we have. I’ve wanted you for so long, but your heart was held by Harry Stapleton. I’ve bided my time, discovering a patience I did not believe I possessed. Night after night I’ve wanted to come to you.’
‘Then why didn’t you?’
‘I wanted you to be ready, Catherine, to want me.’
‘Then as you say, our marriage is special. What happened between us last night will be repeated.’
Marcus tightened his arms about her and smoothed the tendrils of her hair back from her face. ‘I know. I don’t want to lose you now that I have found you.’
‘I fear there may be a vicious battle ahead,’ she murmured. ‘Please take care. There’s danger—I feel it, like the blackness of the sky.’
‘The rain will soon pass, Catherine, and then the sun will shine. Already ’ tis easing. Come—smile, my love,’ he said, standing up and drawing her up beside him, reluctant to leave her yet knowing he must. ‘I’d not take the memory of a dismal face away with me.’
With an effort she obeyed and he took her in his arms once more. His kiss was one of finality, but before he could release her, the oppression in Catherine’s breast sharpened to panic and she threw her arms around his neck, pressing her face to his chest.
‘Goodbye, Marcus. God keep you safe.’
From the window she watched him ride away with Dickon and his men. He spurred his horse, riding north towards Bristol, Monmouth’s immediate destination. The rain continued to fall.
Alice had gone to bed worried about Catherine, but when she entered her room carrying a tray laden with poached eggs and gammon, her worries faded. Still in her nightclothes, Catherine was seated at the dressing table, gazing at her reflection and coiling a tendril of her hair round her finger. There was a subtle change in her, and Alice laid the reason for her dreamy state to her husband’s visit.
‘My, you’re looking in fine spirits this morning.’
So lost was Catherine in her reflections that she hadn’t noticed that Alice had entered the room. The smile still in her eyes, she turned, still feeling the effects of Marcus’s lovemaking. ‘And so I am, Alice,’ she replied, sending her a reassuring smile. ‘So I am.’
Chapter Eight
M onmouth’s army of ill-assorted troops was worryingly short of experienced soldiers. At Bridgwater, ten miles north of Taunton, he was received even more enthusiastically than at Taunton, and by the time his troops left, they were boasting that, within a week, King James would have been ousted and James Scott, Duke of Monmouth, would be enthroned.
They could afford to boast for now. So far they had only been tested by county militia of doubtful allegiance, but the regular army, arriving in the western counties in significant numbers, was drawing closer each day, outnumbering the rebels. There was no organisation in the rebel army, and the weapons and armour Monmouth had brought from Holland were never distributed. Also, there were hardly any officers.
Lord John Churchill, originally the commander of the King’s forces sent to combat Monmouth’s rebellion, had been superseded in command by the Earl of Feversham. With twenty-five years of loyal service behind him, the King thought Feversham to be more suitable to the appointment. Many of those who considered Churchill to be the better soldier believed he was superseded and made second in command because he was a West Country man and former friend of Monmouth’s and therefore not to be completely trusted, despite the fact that most officers in the regular army were former friends of Monmouth.
With Churchill’s troops snapping at his heels, Monmouth marched his army through the rain towards Bristol. No man dare straggle or wander far for food lest they were picked up by the royal troops. Being constantly harried by the enemy, tired and footsore, the nerves of the rebel army began to fray and Monmouth’s confidence to flag. If he could only take Bristol, where he could replenish his empty coffers from its overflowing customs house, it would be a tremendous psychological boost to his troops and encourage others to join him.
But Monmouth failed to take Bristol. Had he displayed resolution and moved more quickly, he might well have captured England’s second largest city before the King’s army had assembled there in sufficient strength, but he failed to seize the moment—finding the strategically vital bridge at Keynsham, halfway between Bristol and Bath, undamaged despite the King’s instructions to Feversham to destroy it. Instead Monmouth decided to wait until darkness before he attacked Bristol, but torrential rain began to fall, turning the roads to quagmires of mud, and the rebel army was forced to move back to Keynsham to seek shelter.
From that moment on, wet and dispirited, the rebel army fell into decline. Doubts were beginning to grow about Monmouth’s leadership. He abandoned Bristol and moved south to Philip’s Norton, where they were attacked and managed to beat off the regular army. As the rain continued to pour down, Monmouth continued south.
Worse was to come. Still no forces came from Wiltshire as had been promised, and the Londoners were notably silent. At Frome he heard of the complete collapse of Argyll’s rebellion in Scotland, and the King’s free pardon to all rebels who laid down their arms. It had a devastating effect on Monmouth. Many of his ragged men took the pardon and deserted him in increasing numbers, and, having lost his resolve, Monmouth would have done so, too, had he been included in the King’s offer.
Methodical movements were made by both sides. Monmouth marched his troops from Frome to Shepton Mallet to Wells, and from there back to Bridgwater. Feversham reached the village of Weston Zoyland, just to the east of Sedgemoor with its treacherous dykes. Monmouth planned to take them unawares. About eleven o’clock on the night of the fifth of July the rebel forces, approaching four thousand in number, silently moved out of Bridgwater along the Bristol road, and galloped across the flat and misty moor to within a mile of the King’s army. They were brought to a halt before a black ribbon of water, the Bussex Rhine, one of the dykes criss-crossing the moor. Hampered and casting about for a way across, the rebels found themselves fighting the royal guards.
The battle that followed lasted for about an hour and a half. Unable to come to grips with the King’s seasoned and practised troops, Monmouth’s army blundered in disorder and were cut to pieces. The rebels who were left took flight, their army dispersed. Monmouth fled with the rest of them.
At Saxton Court, every day Catherine waited for news about what was happening. The conflict between the rebel army and the King’s troops was the main topic of every conversation among the servants. She listened to the rumours. It was said there had been a battle at Sedgemoor near Bridgwater. It was said the Duke of Monmouth’s army had been defeated and was scattered, and that Monmouth had taken flight and was in hiding. But it was only rumour.
And then Margaret Stanhope confirmed the rumour when she came to call on her. Catherine was half-heartedly arranging flowers in the window. When Margaret came into the room, relieved to see a friendly face, she let them fall from her hands and rushed towards her.
‘Margaret! Oh, thank you for coming to see me. If only you knew how good it is to see someone other than the servants. In the light of that awful time when the reb
els came, Marcus has told me not to venture far from the house.’
‘Marcus was right, Catherine. It’s not safe to wander from home at this time.’
‘Then, in God’s name, tell me what is happening,’ Catherine demanded, pulling Margaret down beside her on the sofa. ‘We may as well be on a desert island for all the news we hear at Saxton Court. It’s at times like these I feel so useless being a woman. What news have you?’ she asked anxiously, her gaze searching Margaret’s face.
Margaret lost no time in telling her of the battle that had been fought at Sedgemoor a week ago. ‘Monmouth attacked, hoping to surprise the King’s troops in their beds, but things did not go as planned. The fighting was heavy and confused. George says it was such a close-run thing, where a rebel victory of appalling magnitude was only prevented by a miracle.’
Catherine was deadly still, her face white. ‘And what about Marcus? Does George know where he is? You don’t think he’s dead, do you, Margaret?’ she asked in no more than a whisper.
Seeing tears in Catherine’s eyes, Margaret was quick to reassure her. ‘If he is, then George would know. I’m sorry,’ she said gently, ‘there isn’t anything more I can say, but I’m sure he’s safe. Marcus was with Lord Churchill during the battle.’
‘Are—are there many dead?’
‘Well over a thousand—perhaps the final figure will be closer to two. George says that with experienced men, Monmouth might have won the day, because of his surprise attack and that his force outnumbered the King’s, but the fighting was so confused, and his unskilled troops fired without coordination.’
Catherine allowed her mind to wander as Margaret carried on talking. What about Harry? she wondered. What had become of him? Was he lying wounded somewhere? Did he need help? Please God, don’t let him be dead. Oh, sweet Jesus, not Harry—so brave and true. He can’t be dead. Suddenly understanding that this might be so, she became conscious of both outrage and a wave of bitter grief.
Noticing Catherine’s sudden pallor and believing it to be on account of Marcus, Margaret placed a comforting hand on her arm. ‘Of course you must be worried about Marcus.’
‘Yes—I am.’ Catherine’s voice trembled. It was unsettling that she could care for two men at the same time, but in many ways she cared for them differently. She had loved Harry with all the passion and innocence of her youth, and he was an important part of her past, but Marcus was her future. He made her feel very much his wife and undeniably a woman.
‘Marcus is a survivor, Catherine, as indestructible as the earth itself. I’m sure he’ll be all right.’
‘Were—were many prisoners taken?’
Margaret nodded. ‘Many of those who managed to escape are in hiding—anywhere they can find shelter. Apparently the area around Sedgemoor was the scene of terrible atrocities. George spared me the details, but he did say that some captives are in prison houses—some were hanged immediately after the battle,’ she finished quietly.
‘And Monmouth?’
‘He escaped, but he was found half starved and dressed in peasant clothes hiding in a ditch three days later. He has been taken to London.’
‘Then the rebellion really is over. King James will show no mercy for Monmouth. How terrible that it should have ended like this.’
‘The royal army, with Feversham and Churchill, set off for London soon after the battle.’
‘Then is there no holding force to sort out the aftermath of Sedgemoor?’
‘Not everyone has gone. There is still business to be done. A Captain Kirke, in command of two Tangier regiments of infantry together with cavalry and dragoons, has taken charge to round up the rebels.’
‘And what is he like, this Captain Kirke? Is he a fair man? Will he be merciful in his treatment of the rebels?’
‘It would appear not. He’s a tough man, who commands equally tough men. He is also one of the cruellest, most dissolute officers in the British army by all accounts—a man who commanded the garrison at Tangier, where Marcus served for a time, so he will know Captain Kirke. The barbarism with which he conducted the arbitrary spate of executions there outraged and sickened most decent people. It is an example of what the people of the western counties can expect. Indeed, already there is much injustice and brutality being done, and general condemnation of his treatment of prisoners—although most people are too afraid to speak out. Three days after the battle I watched prisoners manacled together and carts full of wounded, being escorted into Taunton by Captain Kirke. It was a pitiful sight.’
‘Then may God help Monmouth’s rebels,’ Catherine said quietly.
‘George and I are so worried about you being here alone, Catherine. Will you not come and stay with us at Burton Grange, at least until Marcus comes home? We’d love to have you.’
‘I am touched by your concern, Margaret, but please don’t worry. Since Marcus and Captain Kirke both fought for the King, I don’t think Captain Kirke and his soldiers will bother us at Saxton Court. Besides, now Monmouth has been defeated, Marcus will soon be home.’
‘I have been thinking,’ Margaret said, ‘about what you said about the Duke of Monmouth—on the night we dined with you here. You spoke with such fervour about his cause.’
Although Catherine smiled, she managed to look contrite. ‘I am mortified every time I remember how outspoken I was.’
‘Monmouth’s defeat must have come as a terrible disappointment to you.’
‘In truth, Margaret, I don’t know what I feel—immense sadness for the huge loss of life, of course.’
‘And blood so needlessly spilt.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. I still believe everything I said that night and will continue to hope for a Protestant King on England’s throne—but please don’t quote me to George.’ She gave her a winsome smile. ‘He may come and arrest me. But really, Margaret, my behaviour was outrageous and tactless. I quite forgot my manners. I was very silly. What must you have thought of me? Perhaps I should blame the wine for loosening my tongue and making me lose my inhibitions.’ She looked down at her hands and breathed a ragged sigh when she recalled how severely Marcus has admonished her over it. ‘Marcus was extremely angry with me afterwards, and with just cause. He spoke to me like an adult does to a foolish child that needs chastising.’
‘I can see how much you care for him, Catherine,’ Margaret said softly.
‘Everything is made worse because I am missing him so acutely.’
‘I do so hope you hear news of him soon.’
Catherine nodded solemnly. ‘I hope so too. I just want him to come home. These past days I’ve missed him more than I would have believed possible.’
There was also another reason why she wanted Marcus to come home. The nausea and tiredness she had begun to feel of late were hard to shake off some days, and she now knew she could not put them down to her anxiety about her husband and the strain of trying to run Saxton Court. It was Alice who, four weeks after their departure from The Hague, had reminded her that her monthly flux was two weeks late, yet it hadn’t occurred to Catherine that she might be with child. After their brief coupling, she did not believe she would have fallen pregnant the first time.
However, under the watchful eye of Alice, when she missed her next monthly flux and started experiencing occasional bouts of queasiness and tiredness, she was left in no doubt. Alice was quietly delighted, and Catherine excited. When, with a fond, conspiratorial look in her eyes as she embroidered a gown for the baby, Alice asked when she intended telling his lordship, she had replied, ‘Soon, Alice, when I think the time is right.’ For now she would hug her secret close.
Remembering the way Marcus had made love to her before he had gone away, she wanted him more than anything she had wanted in her life. She was glad she was his wife in more than name. She had been unable to withstand his ardour, and he had brought her to that moment of pure ecstasy, knowing full well what he was doing to her, and how she would for ever hunger for that same devastating rapture. She wanted
him to fill her days with happiness and her nights with pleasure, until he loved her as much as she loved him.
Loved him? She frowned at the thought, and then sighed, admitting the truth to herself. She was in love with her husband, the man she had infuriated, mocked and refused to yield to from the day she had first set eyes on him. So what now that she knew that she loved him? Now his smile and the tender look in his fathomless dark eyes warmed her heart, and she could not imagine her life without him.
Having waved goodbye to Margaret and wishing to escape the confines of the house and think about what Margaret had told her, Catherine went into the gardens. Despite a change in the weather and the sun’s warmth, a cold numb feeling remained with her as she unthinkingly wandered towards the woods, where the smell of damp undergrowth was oppressive. Reluctant to return to the house, she wanted to walk and walk for ever, glad to be alone with her thoughts and hoping that Mother Nature would soothe away her melancholy.
Where could Marcus be at that moment? she wondered. She felt that he was safe—she would surely know if he had come to harm. Margaret had said he was as indestructible as the earth, and she believed he was. She firmly believed that luck and divine protection would be with him wherever he went. She had to believe that. It was all that she had to hold on to, for to lose Marcus now would be too terrible to contemplate. But Harry. Dear Harry. He was without Marcus’s experience, impulsive and tender-hearted—not indestructible.
Lost in these thoughts, she had walked further than she intended and did not notice what was going on around her. She failed to hear the dull thud of approaching hoofbeats, of a horse being ridden slowly through the undergrowth, and she did not stir from her reverie till horse and rider appeared in front of her. The rider’s clothes were bloodstained and so thick with dust that his face was indistinguishable. His head was drooping with exhaustion and he was slumped in the saddle barely conscious. It was only when she saw his red hair that she recognised Harry with a shock of surprise. Snorting loudly, the horse came towards her trustingly.
His Rebel Bride Page 18
