The atmosphere clogged with pipe smoke stung Nathan’s eyes as he joined his father-in-law who sat with his youngest son, Robin, in a corner beside the leaded window that looked onto the narrow cobbled street.
On his way to the table, Nathan waylaid the landlord’s wife. “Another jug of ale for my friend here, and a tankard for me, if you please, Matty.”
“Anything for Master Ffoyle.” Matty offered Nathan a distracted smile, which she then turned on the Worshipful Master of Clothworkers.
Ignoring her, Samuel kicked a chair out from beneath the table, gesturing at Nathan to sit.
Matty gave up and left.
“Always said that one was too much for Tobias to handle,” Samuel said, gesturing Nathan into the remaining chair.
Older than him, Matty Lumm was pretty, but hard-nosed, and already the mother of three boys when she and Tobias married. Her dark looks and flirtatious smile reminded Nathan of Tobias’ mother, Emily. When he had mentioned this fact once, Tobias was scornful. Nathan kept his own counsel these days.
Tobias spotted the new arrival and raised a hand in greeting before he sauntered towards them.
Nathan nodded in acknowledgement. Tobias looked nothing like an innkeeper. Tall and darkly handsome in an embroidered long coat and breeches, Tobias looked nothing like an innkeeper. In a crisp white shirt and bucket topped leather boots, and his dark curly hair, he resembled a pirate captain.
When the Rebellion of eighty-five had failed, rather than continue his tenure as steward of Loxsbeare Manor under its new owner, Lord Blanden, Tobias had taken over The Ship, thus allowing his father, Jim Lumm to spend his last illness free from worry. This first decision was easy to understand, though the second surprised Nathan. However, Tobias had settled back into his childhood home unexpectedly well, proving himself an excellent host.
Tobias ruffled Robin’s hair. “You look well, young Robin. I trust your lovely sisters enjoy good health?”
The boy flushed and Samuel beamed. “Tell us the news then, innkeeper.” Samuel put a teasing inflection on the word, moving his chair aside to make room.
Nathan watched them, bemused at the camaraderie between these two, whose station in life could not be more different. Samuel Ffoyle was the Worshipful Master of Clothworkers, a Guild member and an influential man in the city; Tobias, the patron of an ordinary inn.
Tobias dragged a stool forward, swinging a leg over it in one fluid motion and rested his arms on the table. “Lord Mordaunt arrived with four troops of horse at the West Gate this morning, but the porter shut it against them.”
“I shouldn’t think that pleased Prince William.” Samuel drained his remaining ale.
Tobias signalled to a serving girl to bring more ale. She bustled over at a run, sliding the brimming jugs onto the table with an inviting smile at Tobias. An impatient wave of his hand dismissed her. “An alderman opened the gate eventually,” Tobias went on, oblivious of the smouldering look the girl threw him over her shoulder. “Then Mordaunt ordered the porter not to shut it again on pain of death.”
“They wouldn’t barricade the city gates against Prince William, surely?” Samuel laughed, but to Nathan, the sound was hollow. No one could be sure how the prince’s men would be received, but his arrival was imminent and the atmosphere in the city felt heavy with tension.
Tobias looked sceptical. “It’s possible. The other Aldermen have all declared allegiance to King James.”
Nathan pondered his words, while Samuel turned to stare through the window in silence.
“When is Prince William coming?” Robin clutched his tankard of small beer tightly in both hands.
“Soon.” Nathan caught Robin’s eye and winked. He had a rare fondness for this youngest child of Samuel’s. Physically small for thirteen, he was Nathan’s constant shadow, a fact Samuel did not appear to resent.
Tobias tilted his stool against the wall behind him and leaned back, just as the door opened to reveal a stockily-built man in a heavily embroidered blue long coat and a full-bottomed wig too big for his head. He carried an expensive japan cane topped with silver which he leaned on heavily as he advanced into the room. The room fell silent as the newcomer’s sweeping gaze took in the room, coming to rest on Samuel. Smirking, he approached the table, his gait hampered by a pronounced limp.
Nathan took in his bandaged left leg and frowned.
“Fell off his horse,” Tobias said, catching his look. “Nasty wound too.”
“Shame.” Nathan bit his lip to prevent a smile.
Lord Blanden had not only claimed the Woulfe’s estates, he had converted to Catholicism and was now one of King James’ Ecclesiastical commissioners, seeking out anti-papist feeling amongst his neighbours. Not a popular man, he might have been described as handsome had he not worn a perpetual snarl.
“Good morrow, Master Ffoyle.” Blanden managed to make the innocuous greeting sound like an insult.
“Good morrow, my lord,” Robin piped up in his high, boyish voice.
Nathan bit his lip to prevent a laugh as a ripple of amused laughter worked its way round the room.
Samuel’s lips twitched, but he did not reprimand Robin.
Lord Blanden’s face darkened, and he jutted his chin forward. “You’ll not be making jokes at my expense soon, Ffoyle.” He spat the name out as if it tasted bitter.
“I’m unaware I made any joke, my lord.” Samuel kept his voice bland, and sipped slowly from the tankard in his hand.
“You’ll not be in a position to insult me much longer.” Blanden sneered, his complexion blotched red. “It appears your loyalty is in question, and the city won’t tolerate traitors. Especially one who is the Worshipful Master of Clothworkers.”
A small moan escaped Robin’s lips and he fidgeted on his seat.
Nathan clamped a hand down on his shoulder. “Be still, lad,” he whispered.
Robin obeyed.
The room fell silent as jugs hovered in mid-air, their owners’ curious faces turned in their direction. Samuel nodded to one or two familiar patrons, who offered thin smiles before ducking their heads away. He placed his tankard on the table, rising to his feet to tower over Lord Blanden. Nathan prepared to jump between them, but Samuel was icily calm.
“If I were you, my lord, I would look to your own conscience before casting doubt on good Anglican citizens.”
At a nearby table a man snorted, another spluttered a mouthful of ale down the front of his coat. Tobias’ chuckle brought Blanden’s head swinging round to level a hard stare at him, but Tobias presented an expression of bland innocence.
Samuel cocked his head as though listening, one finger raised. “What do I hear? The sound of forty thousand soldiers approaching the West Gate? I wonder who it might be.” He turned to his son. “Do you know, boy?”
Robin grinned. “Of course I do, sir. Prince William is coming.”
Samuel held his hands outstretched, palms upward. “There you see. Even my son knows how the wind blows.”
Blanden’s eyes narrowed, but he stood his ground, exhibiting little signs of a man being publicly humiliated. This bothered Nathan. Blanden was too calm.
The inn door creaked open to admit two officers of the watch.
Heads dipped to jugs of ale and an odd nervous cough accompanied the sound of booted feet stomping across the room.
“These men want a word with you, Master Ffoyle.” Blanden’s grin widened.
Nathan pulled himself to his feet beside Samuel, his hand still clamped on Robin’s shoulder. The boy trembled beneath his touch, his eyes round and fearful as they went from his father to Nathan and back again.
The nearest officer handed Samuel a roll of parchment. “Master Ffoyle,” the officer read aloud. “You are to appear before the alderman and magistrates at the Guildhall on the morrow to make your oath of allegiance to His Majesty King James.” He handed the parchment to Samuel before raking the room with a surly glance before he and his companion strode out.
Lord Bl
anden followed, paused at the door and turned back. “Now we shall see who the traitor is.” His eyes glittered with malice as he left, slamming the door behind him.
Samuel’s hands visibly shook as he unrolled the parchment, staring at it in silence.
Robin looked on, his face stricken.
Nathan’s smile intended to reassure the boy, but his own insides felt queasy. He could only imagine how Samuel was feeling.
“What does it say, Master Ffoyle?” Tobias placed both hands on the table and read over his shoulder.
“Very little, other than I must appear at the Guildhall.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing. Has anyone else in the city received orders like this?” Nathan glanced round at the other patrons, meeting blank stares and shrugs.
“What shall you do, Father?” Robin’s eyes shone with unnatural brightness.
Samuel kneaded his son’s shoulder with one hand. “Let’s go home. We’ll decide later.”
The sound of scraped back chairs followed by booted feet shuffling on the boards accompanied them into the cobbled street.
During the short walk to collect their horses, Nathan could not help thinking that Samuel had expected this.
* * *
November 1688, Exeter – Samuel
The following morning, Samuel took a protracted farewell of his family before he set off on the three mile ride into Exeter astride his favourite horse, a massive beast more suited to pulling a plough. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he told his wife, Meghan.
He had meant to reassure her, but when she had burst into fresh sobbing, he had been forced to summon their eldest daughter, Susannah, who took her back into the house.
“Send us word if there’s trouble,” Nathan had said, out of earshot of the younger children, before waving him off.
Samuel had seen it coming. Other than to insist on public fealty from its leading citizens, how else could the aldermen secure their position against the invader? That Samuel should be elected one of the first was unfortunate, though he suspected Lord Blanden had a hand in that.
He urged his horse over the stone bridge and out onto the Exeter Road, speculating on the most likely source of the man’s malice. Lord Miles Blandon had been Sir Jonathan Woulfe’s friend, or so everyone believed, but had betrayed him to the magistrates when they rode off to join Monmouth. When the Rebellion failed and Loxsbeare was seized by the crown, Blanden rushed to purchase the Woulfe’s estate from Judge Jeffries. For a derisory sum, rumour said.
Then someone ran off Blanden’s sheep and fired his carriage. The Woulfe carriage. It could not be proved, but his lordship always believed Samuel and Tobias were responsible. Blanden still harboured a grudge and had sought his opportunity for revenge ever since. It appeared he had found it.
What should he do? Samuel had assured his family he had the matter under control, but that was pure bravado. He had no idea.
The road topped a small rise and Samuel twisted the reins to halt his horse, the grass crackling with an early frost beneath the animal’s hooves.
The old horse didn’t seem to mind and dipped his head to nibble at the grass verge. Heavy morning silence engulfed him and Samuel inhaled the sharp, cold air tinged with wood smoke, his eyes narrowed to take in the view.
The medieval Rougemont Castle dominated the skyline, with the pale stone Norman cathedral sitting squat and solid in the middle distance. Numerous church spires reached into a watery blue sky, the whole enclosed by the ancient city walls with its secured entrances glowing red beneath the winter sun.
Tree branches rustled overhead, swayed by a sudden brisk wind that held the tang of salt. Samuel loved this place. He would always love it, even if what he saw of it after today was only the inside of the goal at St Pancras. The magistrates might well make an example of him if he refused to swear fealty to King James.
And he would refuse. He must.
He leaned down to pat the animal’s neck, his saddle creaking beneath him. “May as well get it over with, eh boy?”
The horse whickered, pawing the ground and spewing white wisps into the air through flared nostrils.
Samuel called at The Ship first, not so much for a drink to boost his courage, but to entrust his mount into his friend’s care. “Look after the old boy for me, Tobias.”
“For a while, perhaps, Master Ffoyle.” Tobias took the reins from him with a curt nod. “But I’ll have you know, I don’t run a livery stable.”
Their eyes met and held in a look of mutual understanding as a knot of sadness welled in Samuel’s throat. He gripped Tobias’ shoulder briefly before he turned and strode down St Martins Lane into the High Street. He almost looked back, but at the last second, resisted.
Two guards stood to attention beneath the portico of the Guildhall, stiffening at Samuel’s approach. One knocked on the studded door with his staff, the thud echoing hollow and ominous.
The sound of his doom perhaps?
The small wicket gate cut into the thick oak swung inward, and swallowing, Samuel ducked his head and stepped through. His heart hammered in his chest, his gaze swept the rows of wooden seats lined up on either side of the hall like church pews.
The judge’s chair, with its ornamental carvings, stood at the far end. Arched stained glass windows set high in the walls threw beams of light into the lofty hall, bathing the tiled floor with elongated shapes in transparent, jewel colours.
Samuel halted, puzzled. The chamber stood empty.
“Where are the Magistrates?” he asked the guard who had followed him in.
The man shrugged. “Bugger’d if I know, sir.’ Samuel glared at him and the man ducked his head. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir. I was told to man me place as usual, but no one turned up s’morning.” The guard scratched his nose and sniffed. “City aldermen all left last night, and from what I hear, Prince William's expected any time now.”
Chapter Four
November 1688, London – Helena
The bang of the front door knocker, followed by Glover’s welcome, woke Helena from a light doze, which coincided with Guy entering the parlour, his cheeks flushed from the cold November air.
“Do I disturb you, my dear? You must be fatigued indeed to fall asleep in a chair.”
She blinked awake and murmured a response, surprised to see it was dusk outside. When had she begun dozing off in chairs? It made her feel like an old woman.
Guy planted a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll go up and change into less formal attire. Kindly summon Glover and order mulled wine, for I’m chilled.”
Left alone again, Helena shifted in search of a more comfortable position, her hands folded across her rounded belly with mild disgust. Surely, no woman had ever been this large with child? Every movement was a chore and the child’s kicks were not at all endearing, as her friend Amy had promised. The nights offered her no respite either, her exhaustion worsened by the squirming of the babe inside her that prevented her sleeping.
Amy’s husband, Elias Ffoyle, managed the Woulfes’ wool interests in London from their Freemans Yard warehouse. Without their help and the fact Sir Jonathan Woulfe had managed to keep some of his fortune back for his children, Helena would have been destitute. Elias and Amy had two children and yet, despite her friend’s support, Helena felt very alone in her pregnancy.
Then there was Celia’s tragedy, which played in her head during the small hours making her restless and fearful. She tried not to disturb Guy, but when her movements woke him, she attempted to explain her fears. Inevitably he dismissed her with a casual, “’Tis the Lord’s decree such trials be reserved for women, my dear.”
“That’s exactly what terrifies me,” Helena had replied through gritted teeth. He had given no sign of having heard her, much less understood.
Guy re-entered the room dressed in an Indian gown similar to one Robert often wore. Through half-closed eyes, she watched him arrange the sash round his middle. Unlike Robert, Guy still possessed his own hair and did n
ot cover a shorn head with the beaver fur caps the master of Lambtons favoured. Guy was taller, younger and markedly more handsome. So why did he insist on dressing like an elderly man?
She narrowed her eyes, peering through her lashes and blurring his outline. This is what we will be like when we are old. With an inward sigh, she lifted a hand to her mouth to chew absently at a ragged cuticle.
“The coffee houses are filled with talk that Prince William has arrived in Torbay with forty thousand men,” Guy began. “His army is on its way through Devon. I expect they will reach your home city of Exeter soon, my dear.”
Helena sat up straighter, a hand to her bodice. “Is that not good news?”
“If there is little or no bloodshed, yes, I would say so.”
Bloodshed! Helena shivered. “What else have you heard?” She kept her voice light, aware that a display of anxiety would prompt an end to the conversation, yet she longed for news of her brother. It confounded her how quick Guy was to fuss over every trivial pain, yet when she expressed fears for the worst ordeal facing a woman, her husband seemed indifferent.
She watched him now as he snapped open the copy of the London Gazette Glover had laid out for him. “The prince’s ships numbered an impressive five hundred, forming a twenty mile long convoy along the south coast.” His voice dropped an octave as he read aloud. “It seems that despite his careful preparations throughout the summer, King James was caught unawares.”
“How so?” Helena wished she had paid more attention to recent gossip; her lethargy frustrated her.
Guy looked up and gave her a slow smile. “Because the fleet he sent to repel them were trapped behind a sandbank.”
Helena frowned, more concerned with what was likely to happen when the Prince reached Exeter. Despite her recent seclusion, even she knew King James had sent an army to the west to repel the invader. Would the city aldermen welcome the prince, or would the king send them all back to Holland? If he did, what would happen to Aaron? Was he even in England? She wished she had some answers.
The Goldsmith's Wife (The Woulfes of Loxsbeare Book 2) Page 3
