Tapestry

by Fiona McIntosh

  DEDICATION

  For our Will,

  also on a fantastical research journey,

  into new frontiers of the mind

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  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

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  PROLOGUE

  London, summer 1715

  His fingers reached helplessly toward the glimpse of skin that had appeared when Nancy’s shawl slipped off her shoulder. His eyes were closed, but he could see that plunge of soft, creamy flesh, a small valley nestled between proud breasts where the tiny medallion he’d hammered out of silver hung, warm and safe.

  They were kissing in an apple orchard on the fringe of their hamlet, the sun only just lightening the sky on a bracing spring morning. The steam from their breath curled and twisted in the breeze when they pulled apart, and blossom drifted to the ground around them like the strewn rose petals that he knew she dreamed of for her wedding day.

  Nancy looked down and he felt her hand press against his hard —

  ‘Marvell!’ boomed a voice.

  The blacksmith snapped out of his reverie. ‘Over here, Mr Fanning!’ he yelled to his foreman above the clanging and ringing of hammers on anvils. He’d been banging out a length of iron and the repetitive work had allowed his mind to drift to Berkshire, where Nancy waited for his return. She had given him until the harvest in two years’ time to marry her or she would allow Farmer John Bailey to woo her.

  Marvell reached for a rag to wipe his face of sweat, and with it thoughts of Nancy lying with John Bailey. He put his hammer down as his superior approached and pointed a thumb sharply in the other direction.

  ‘You’re wanted upstairs.’

  Marvell frowned. ‘I haven’t done anything,’ he said, knowing all too well that being called upstairs likely meant a docking of wages, or some other kind of trouble.

  ‘I didn’t say you had,’ Fanning growled. ‘Clean up.’

  ‘Why?’ Were they dismissing him? He’d been working so diligently and not spending any money on ale or betting. ‘I’ve been here early every day this week, Mr Fanning.’

  ‘Marvell, get your arse upstairs as soon as you’ve tidied up … and hurry!’

  The man stomped away. It definitely sounded as though Marvell was up for a reprimand.

  He went to the washing trough, scrubbed at the dirt with the gritty paste provided, and thought of his sweetheart again.

  ‘Wait for me, Nancy,’ he’d asked as he broke free of her kiss that spring morning. ‘Let me find a journeyman’s work in London and earn enough to give us a future.’

  As he dried his face and hands, he remembered how she’d pulled him close, smelling of roses and the gingerbread she’d baked for him before their dawn meeting, and how she’d nodded at him tearily before she made him give a pledge. ‘Go, William. But do not keep me waiting beyond the harvest festival of 1717.’

  ‘I will bring home two fists brimming with silver so you can wear a dress of silk to our wedding, and we can host a fine feast and to live in our own cottage from then on.’

  He had kissed her fiercely and then turned his towering, brawny frame to begin his journey on foot to London, where at length he found work with John Robbins, the prized London blacksmith.

  Now Marvell sighed away his memories, rolled his sleeves down and did his best to smooth his hair, but decided he couldn’t help how he looked at mid-morning on a busy working day. He loped to the back of the foundry and trudged upstairs, anticipating a bollocking even though he had no clue why he should be in trouble.

  ‘Mr Fanning,’ he said as he knocked tentatively.

  ‘Come in,’ the man said. ‘This is William Marvell, sir,’ he continued with careful deference to an older man inspecting the main floor from the vantage of this upper level. Above him hung a sign wrought in iron: By hammer and hand all arts do stand.

  Fanning turned to Marvell again. ‘Sir George Moseley wishes to talk to you.’

  Marvell blinked. ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘You’ve certainly got a chest for your work, eh, Marvell?’ Moseley remarked.

  Marvell lifted an eyebrow. ‘I’ve been swinging a hammer since I was twelve, and working the bellows since I was indentured at six summers, sir. I suppose my chest has shaped itself into this hard barrel over years of working at a smithy.’ He shrugged, and tried not to look down at his hands and his arms, twice the width of Moseley’s and bulging with muscle roped by thick veins. Marvell didn’t believe he looked much different from any other journeyman, but he knew he had a lot of silver to earn to keep his promise to Nancy to come home with his huge fists full of coin.

  ‘How long have you worked for John Robbins, son?’ Moseley asked. He was in the uniform of a guard, which, together with his age, suggested to Marvell that he enjoyed plenty of authority. Marvell felt his mood turn defensive.

  ‘More than a year now, sir. I planned to give it at least two before I return to my village in Berkshire.’

  ‘And how goes your work here?’

  ‘I work hard, sir. Stay out of trouble. I save every penny I make, as I’m engaged to be married. I’ll open my own smith on my return to Berkshire, sir.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear. A man with grit and ambition, earning an honest wage for honest work.’

  Marvell didn’t understand what the official’s point was, but decided it was better to stay silent than risk appearing a dullard.

  ‘How would you like to earn ten pounds for a single day’s work?’

  Not even in his daydreams had Marvell entertained thoughts of a job that might pay him so handsomely. His whole year’s work at Robbins’s smithy might amount to sixty pounds. He frowned at Moseley, feeling uncomfortable at the way his hair still dripped damply down his back, and wondered whether this job offer had a sinister side. It almost sounded too good to be true. The silence lengthened as he pondered this.

  ‘Your apprehension shows, Marvell,’ Moseley remarked, while Fanning glared at his employee.

  ‘I don’t know what that means, sir,’ Marvell answered, ‘but if you’re asking whether I feel suspicious, then yes, forgive me, sir, I do not feel comfortable.’ He wiped his sleeve across his mouth, knew it to be uncouth, but he was a smith. What could this man, resplendent in what he now realised was a military uniform, want with him, other than to ask for his horse to be reshod? ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he began, ‘I don’t
understand why I am being interviewed or being offered this kind of money.’

  Moseley nodded. ‘I like your honesty, Marvell, and you come recommended to me for your reliability. So let me enlighten you as to my mysterious offer. I’m tasked with the role of finding a new city executioner. Our last, after escaping prison for his debts, murdered a man and beat a woman so senseless I can’t imagine her recovering from her injuries. Mr Price was the city hangman for a number of years and finished by swinging at the end of his own noose, having lived a life on the fringe of the law, it seems.’ He gave a sardonic grin. ‘I don’t intend for that to occur again.’

  William’s mouth had gaped open as Moseley gave his explanation. ‘You’re offering me that job?’

  ‘We’ve asked around. Blacksmiths tend to have the right skills needed. You have genuine potential as London’s new city executioner.’

  William began to reply, but he faltered and Moseley took this for acquiescence.

  ‘We shall pay you for each hanging. Obviously they do not occur every day. We prefer to hang criminals in blocks of six or more out of Tyburn. I trust you’re not squeamish about hanging women either?’ He didn’t wait for Marvell’s answer before pulling out a snuffbox and moving rhythmically through the ritual of pinching the tobacco and sniffing it loudly. He cleared his throat, undaunted that two men waited on his words. ‘I presume, Marvell, if you swing a hammer as well as your employer asserts, that you can also swing an axe?’

  William nodded, still too stunned to speak.

  Moseley shrugged. ‘I cannot imagine when you might be called upon to use that particular skill, but I have to warn you that you may occasionally be required to behead a prisoner. Is that a problem for you?’ Now he did wait for Marvell’s answer.

  ‘If the punishment befits the crime, then I can’t imagine I’d hesitate to deal with a man who has sinned so harshly against our king and country.’ He could see that his careful reply was what Moseley wanted to hear. It would have been so easy to jump in with a simple no, without considering the implications of that answer.

  ‘Excellent. You will be paid more than you can imagine for such a job done cleanly and without sensation.’

  More than you can imagine. William did glance at his large hands now, remembering his promise to Nancy. ‘I can imagine a lot of money, sir.’

  Moseley threw him a wry smile. ‘Shall we say twelve pounds per severed head?’ he offered. ‘You keep whatever your victims give you … and their boots, of course. Any hangings of common criminals at Tyburn we will pay by six necks. Let’s say ten pounds for each batch, shall we? The first of those will take place in the next few weeks.’

  William Marvell found it impossible at that moment to swallow. His lips wanted to form the words thank you, his hand yearned to offer itself in a gesture acknowledging that a deal had been agreed. But he didn’t trust his voice, and his hands had instantly become clammy, rooted to his side. It was all he could do to nod, dazed.

  ‘Excellent. Congratulations on your new role, Marvell. You shall hear from me in due course. I would suggest you get some training in, learn to swing that axe accurately.’ He grinned. ‘Rumblings up north suggest we may need those skills sooner than later.’ Moseley sniffed loudly again, chortling softly, before nodding at his companions. He tossed a tiny sack of coin at William. ‘Get yourself some pumpkins and practise.’ He strode from the room, Fanning following politely.

  They left William blinking where he stood, pennies for pumpkins jingling softly in the leather sack in his palm.

  ONE

  Terregles, Scotland, August 1715

  She knew she’d find him here, on the roof, silent and lost in his thoughts as he stared south toward the river and beyond to the borders, where war beckoned.

  ‘Have you made a decision?’ She was careful to ensure there was no hint of reproach in her tone.

  He looked down as she approached, but didn’t turn. ‘I have no choice, Win,’ he replied, his voice gritty. He cleared his throat, which she suspected was to shift the tension he’d been feeling. Winifred, though she spoke with restraint, felt his sense of duty hurt her as keenly as if he’d delivered a blow to her belly. She could hear he was heavy of heart, no doubt struggling with his decision, but he still sounded as though he’d already made it.

  Winifred stood close behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest, for her own reassurance as much as his. She felt small against his broad, hard body, as she rested her cheek on the velvet of his coat and wondered how she would find the courage to part with him. ‘Ignoring a summons to Edinburgh doesn’t mean —’

  ‘It does,’ he said, his voice raw. ‘I’ve been named in the Warrant. A traitor to the Crown.’ He shook his head and gave a soft sneer. ‘The Act for Encouraging Loyalty in Scotland is very clear. I’m officially now a rebel. It seems I have two choices: imprisonment, or join the call and raise my standard against the English king.’ He turned in her arms and embraced her properly, kissing the top of her head where golden hair met pale, unblemished skin. ‘I’m damned either way. Forgive me for bringing this upon you.’

  She looked up into the face of the man she’d fallen helplessly in love with fourteen years previously at the French court of exiled King James III of England — the one the Protestants called the ‘Old Pretender’ — and was struck by how much more handsome she found him without his periwig, which he’d had to wear for the portrait he’d been posing for recently. She took a deep breath, knowing that no matter how much it grieved her to give up her husband to this dangerous rebellion, she couldn’t deny her support for his courageous decision. ‘William, one of the reasons I married you was because you shared our family’s fierce belief in returning the true Catholic heir to the British throne.’

  ‘Ah. And there I was, convinced it was purely because I was so irresistibly handsome,’ he replied dryly, winning her smile. He turned back to look across the moors, but in that moment Winifred saw a terrible sadness behind his gaze and alarm rippled through her. ‘Our children’s lives are now at risk … yours too, my love.’ She could feel his shoulders slump with heavy regret. ‘The King of England knows me for a Jacobite. I don’t hide my Catholic beliefs.’

  ‘Nor I, my beloved,’ she uttered, reiterating her support for his cause. ‘Come downstairs and warm yourself. Summer is farewelling us, and if you’re going to fight for the true king, we must not risk your being anything but hale.’

  They walked across the rooftop and shared a poignant glance as Winifred recalled the exciting moment in France when that same blue gaze had rested on her for longer than was considered polite. She’d known of this strapping and stylish newcomer from Scotland. How could she not have, when all the Jacobite court’s women were gossiping about an eligible bachelor who had arrived in Paris to pay his respects to the exiled British king?

  ‘My, but he’s handsome,’ Queen Mary Beatrice had whispered to the impressionable nineteen-year-old Winifred from behind a fluttering fan.

  Winifred remembered how the heat had flashed on her cheeks and her gaze had instantly dropped.

  ‘No, no, my dear Winifred,’ the Queen went on. ‘Do not avert your attention. You do not even have to use feminine wiles to attract this one. He has eyes only for you and the court is ablaze with speculation, for he is a fine catch. Match his gaze and meet him in the gardens should he ask you to take a turn. I shall certainly be giving my permission,’ she added, giving Winifred a conspiratorial smile.

  Upon the death of her mother, who had been the Queen’s loyal friend, Winifred had been shown valuable patronage by the exiled sovereign. She had even been permitted to accompany Queen Mary Beatrice on a week’s visit to Versailles. They had arrived via the glittering Hall of Mirrors, which reflected the extravagant surroundings and attested to the wealth and power of the man who had built this palace; during winter he would burn hundreds of candles in chandeliers and their light would be boosted a thousand times over in the mirrors to make it as bright and sunny as an afternoon
in July.

  It was here in the court of the Sun King, Louis XIV, that Winifred had learned the sophisticated language of the court: how to say one thing but mean another; how to lie effortlessly and elegantly; how to use wit rather than acidity; and how to be exquisitely discreet as well as flirtatious and irresistible to men at all times.

  As she regarded her husband, Winifred wondered whether he was also remembering how the women in the exiled court at Saint-Germain-en-Laye had chattered about the cobalt-eyed Scot, with his expensive and fashionably cut clothes and wig of dark, curling hair. William had been gracious to all, but even amid her nervousness Winifred sensed his gaze following her hungrily. He laughed more with her than with the other women and encouraged her views on everything from the Jacobite cause to King Carlos of Spain’s appointment of his grandson as heir. She knew she also impressed him with her conversation, which ranged well beyond needlework and how to run a household.

  ‘He is the laughter and song in my heart,’ she’d finally admitted to Queen Mary Beatrice on the day that William had proposed marriage.

  She recalled how the Queen had chuckled. ‘Your acceptance of a marriage proposal will break the hearts of a dozen other lovely ladies, child. He is most eligible.’

  ‘I have no desire to follow my sister, Lucy, into a wimple, Your Majesty,’ she had replied.

  ‘Then I insist you marry here,’ the Queen had said with a smile.

  Winifred Herbert wed William Maxwell in the quietly beautiful chapel of Saint-Germain-en-Laye. She had walked the sixty-two steps from the church entrance to the three stairs that led up to the altar with a less than demure smile that friends claimed refused to leave her blushing cheeks for days. Not even the near-to-freezing cold that clawed up from the pitted flagstones through her jewelled wedding slippers could chill the warmth that her bright expression brought to all the guests.

  And then she had kissed her ‘family’ of nine years a fond farewell and sailed with William for Scotland, finally arriving at the Nithsdale family seat at Terregles in the border county of Dumfries. The house was a rambling affair of pale local stone and charcoal-coloured flint, where generations had added new wings and one had even built a tower, the rooftop William favoured. It afforded him a view across to the River Nith and beyond to the patchwork of fields that sprawled into England.