Aaron sent up a silent prayer. Let him be one of my own.
He didn’t hear the shot, but the pressure on his neck and shoulders relaxed and his attacker staggered backwards. A red bloom opened up in the Irishman’s chest and he crumpled to the ground without a sound. His white cockade parted company from his hat and fluttered to the mud.
Aaron staggered to his feet, intending to thank his rescuer, but he had disappeared in the crush of bodies. His arm burned, but ignoring it, he searched around for a weapon, or risk being not only useless against the enemy, but at their mercy too. A lump rose in his throat at the sight of a fellow officer leading a horse. It wasn’t Aaron’s horse, but a welcome sight all the same.
“You need a mount, I think, Woulfe.” Lord Oxford laughed, his eyes twinkling.
“I’m eternally grateful, sir.” Aaron gasped, gripping the slippery leather with his left hand. Pain shot up his arm, but he gritted his teeth and hung on. A runner arrived and handed him a sword, his teeth gritted and ears ringing with shouts of agony and roars of anger reverberating around him.
On the ridge above, the elder Schomberg, his armour discarded, streaked ahead of his men toward the French cavalry. “The old Huguenot is certainly game.” Lord Oxford called out, pointing to a line of fast moving redcoats who streamed over the ridge. “He’s showing no quarter to the Catholic French.”
Aaron didn’t respond; the effort of hauling himself into the saddle took all his remaining strength. When he raised his eyes to where he last saw Schomberg, he frowned. The man’s horse was running back the way it had come, panic-stricken, but with no rider.
Another volley of gunfire sounded. Someone yelled that the Jacobites were on the run. Aaron forgot Schomberg’s horse, watching with suppressed joy the remnants of the Stuart’s army as they turned and ran toward the bridge in the direction of Duleek town.
Imagining the end was finally in sight, Aaron joined the rout with enthusiasm, the victory cry of his men resounding round him as they fell on the enemy. After only a hundred yards or so, he began to feel dizzy and he slumped forward, the ground blurring and receding in a slow rhythm. With quiet detachment, he noticed his blood had coloured the horse’s neck bright red.
A Jacobite came running out of his left, a raised pike levelled at his waist.
Aaron froze, his mind hazed by indecision. Avoid the blow or try to counter it? Just then a horseman appeared from behind the pikeman, and with a savage roar, his sword sliced downward, severing the man’s arm at the shoulder.
A spray of warm wetness hit Aaron’s face just as a roaring sounded in his ears. The light grew dim, and his nerveless arms dropped the rein. He slumped forward and he slipped into the abyss, convinced he had recognised his rescuer.
It couldn’t be, could it?
Then everything went black.
Chapter Nineteen
July 1690, Tullyallen, Ireland – Aaron
Aaron awoke to a blaze of light flooding through the folded back canvas of his tent. Disorientation turned to panic as he waited until his blurred vision cleared. He narrowed his eyes against the searing pain in his head, as his surroundings became familiar. He tried to raise himself on one elbow and almost screamed when an unexpected agony shot through his arm. “Lay still, Aaron,” Hendrick said, his voice curt but gentle. “You haf lost a lot of blood.”
“How bad?” Aaron flopped back against the hard pillow, bracing himself for unwelcome news.
“Your forearm was opened to ze bone. It’s a clean cut that happened at the end of the battle. It shouldn’t become cankered.”
“And my head?” He fingered the rough bandage round his forehead.
“You were kicked by a horse.”
Aaron felt mildly disappointed. A mannerless horse, and so much pain for a slashed arm?
“A pity you did not wake half an hour ago, ze king came to zee you.”
“His Majesty was here?” Aaron closed his eyes again as the booming in his head made him nauseous and dizzy.
“He was.”
He longed for a drink. Hendrick must have sensed his need and a cup was held to Aaron’s lips.
“Zere’s an underwater stream behind ze camp.” Hendrick said. “I’m sorry I could not find any ale. Our supplies are low.”
Aaron gulped thirstily, hardly caring if it came from the river. “We won, didn’t we?” he croaked through a throat that felt filled with needles.
“The ravine at Roughgrange prevented zem, but it was a good diversion. The Stuart’s men retreated in ze end, so it wasn’t a bad tactic after all.”
Aaron nodded gingerly, although even that hurt. “I expect old Schomberg will be the first to say it was a mistake.”
“We lost Schomberg.”
Aaron turned his head quickly, wishing he hadn’t when raw pain crashed through his skull. He narrowed his eyes to bring Hendrick’s face into focus. “Young Meinhart?”
Hendrick shook his head. “No, his fahzer. King William doesn’t want his death put about joost yet.”
Aaron closed his eyes and groaned. “I understand. What are our losses?”
“About a zousand are dead, as opposed to fifteen hundred Jacobites.”
Aaron said nothing. He had seen enough death. He could still hear it, smell it, and feel it all around him. He could take neither triumph nor pleasure in it any more.
He watched Hendrick move a bowl, then pick up a towel, small tasks the sergeant should have performed, but there was no sight of the man.
Instinct for his friend’s discomfort alerted him. “What else is wrong, Hendrick?”
Hendrick straightened, misery clearly etched on his handsome features. “Perhaps I should not talk of it. We are the victors after all, and zis is not the time…”
“Go on.” Aaron fought down nausea, his curiosity at his friend’s distress pulled him briefly out of his own agony.
Hendrick cocked his chin toward the river below the camp. “Out zere, our soldiers are riding their coaches over the bodies of the Irish Jacobites. Zey haf gone mad in their victory. Some of the Blues complained to His Majesty, but it did no goot.” He stood white-faced, his fists clenched at his sides.
Aaron released a pent up breath. “I’m so sorry, Hendrick. King William, I know, would condemn it.” Bile rose in his throat, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain or excuse them. He had seen victory crazed troops before. Bodies on battlefields were stripped, their effects sold in hastily constructed markets in full view of the corpses. Hendrick was too gentle a man for war.
“There is zomeone to see you, if you are well enough?” Hendrick turned toward the tent flap, his expression enquiring.
Imagining the king had returned, Aaron tried to nod, but the pain brought him up short.
Framed in the doorway, a man stood tall and proud, with blood on his coat that mixed incongruously with thick river mud that caked his boots.
“It was you,” Aaron croaked through a raw throat. “I thought I imagined it. You saved my life.”
Tobias Lumm slapped his hat against his blood-splattered thigh. “I’m always glad to serve the Woulfes.”
“I never imagined you would become a soldier.” Aaron nodded to the officer’s gorget at Tobias’ throat.
“Nor I, sir. Until now. I serve under Colonel Erle, in Luttrell’s Regiment.”
“Hendrick, this is our—” Aaron looked around for his friend, but Hendrick was not there.
“I asked him to leave us alone.” Tobias hunkered down beside the truckle bed. “He says you should rest, but even so, I’ve put this off long enough.”
“Put what off, Lumm? What are you talking about?” He could swear there was an angry bee circulating in his brain.
“I joined the regiment because I knew you would be here in Ireland.”
“I—I don’t understand.” Aaron felt irritated as the pain mingled with a new emotion, confusion.
“I was never happier than when I was living at Loxsbeare, serving your father.”
�
�I’m glad, Lumm.” Aaron managed a weak smile. “I was too. But those days are over.”
“Sir Jonathan brought me to the manor for a reason, sir.”
With an effort, Aaron focused on the face of the man who had come looking for him after the rebellion, bringing letters from his family to The Hague. He had broken the news of his mother’s death with genuine sympathy. A loyal servant, certainly. And yet, the impression persisted that Lumm’s presence was important.
“At Loxsbeare, I had a purpose in life, Aaron.”
At the sound of his given name, Aaron frowned, uneasy now.
“Your father was my father too.”
“No!” Aaron struggled with the word which came out muffled. He tried to sit up, but the pain held him down like a vice. “That’s not true.” He gave a moan and lifted his good hand to his forehead in an effort to knead the agony away so he could think.
Tobias stepped closer, his voice pleading. “Don’t try to move, sir. You’ll injure yourself further. Sir Jonathan told me he…” he went on, “that he met my mother before his marriage to yours. It was a youthful mistake, but he acknowledged me.”
Aaron felt crushed under a massive weight, his breathing quickened. “I don’t believe you. Sir Jonathan Woulfe had two sons. Two! There are no by-blows to claim his name.”
“Your mother knew about me. She—”
“Never mention her name!” Aaron spat through gritted teeth.
His shout brought Hendrick running into the tent. He rushed to Aaron’s side, throwing an admonishing glare at Tobias. “Be still, you’ll make ze wound bleed again.” Tobias backed away, his face flushed an angry red. “I apologise,” he addressed Hendrick. “I never meant—”
Summoning his remaining strength, Aaron leaned up on his uninjured elbow. Sweat trickled down his forehead into his eyes. “How dare you claim kinship with me, Lumm. You’re a steward. I’ll never accept you as anything more. Even if my Father were to walk in here to tell me what you say is true.” He took a deep, ragged breath before continuing. “I suspect you do so because he cannot confirm your ridiculous story. But to make my late mother part of your evil ploy is despicable, I—” he broke off, collapsing back on the bedroll, gasping for breath.
“I think you should go, sir,” Hendrick jerked his head toward the open tent flap.
Viewing them through half closed lids, Aaron had no strength left to argue. Tobias paused in the doorway and turned back. “I didn’t mean to make him angry, or his pain worse.” His clear gaze still fixed on Aaron. “I’m not lying, sir.”
Aaron opened his mouth to voice an impassioned denial, but his voice would not come. When he opened his eyes again, Tobias had gone.
* * *
September 1690, Palmer House, London – Helena
September brought crisp mornings and a welcome sharp breeze that helped carry off the tang of the river, although by mid-morning the air was still and heavy.
Helena was restless, plagued by the feeling she had missed something important, but it proved elusive and she pushed the notion to the back of her mind. Instead, she tried to decide which of her gowns was the most comfortable to wear at dinner. The humidity made everything cling to her clammy skin, and thoughts of spending hours fastened into unyielding taffeta was an unwelcome prospect.
“Is there something amiss, Mistress?” Chloe asked from where she kneeled by the dresser arranging a pile of clean shifts.
Helena jumped at the sound of her voice. “I…I’m not sure, Chloe, it is just something—”
Over the years Chloe had evolved from a fleshless waif into compact slenderness, her skin no longer earthy brown, but pink and translucent. Her ugly gait she had schooled into a slow, graceful limp.
“Well, if you aren’t sure, Mistress, I wouldn’t presume to know better, having had no young ’uns meself.”
A wave of nausea sent Helena rushing to the china bowl on her dresser just in time, shuddering until her stomach stopped heaving. Her hand shook as she took the square of linen Chloe held out and wiped her mouth. “I cannot be.” she murmured.
“There might still be time to pay a visit to the master’s room tonight, Mistress, then he’ll be none the wiser.” Chloe said, avoiding Helena’s eye.
Helena bridled, but at the same time she toyed with following the girl’s advice. Then as her predicament uncurled in her head, she sank down onto the bed.
“I’ve served you a long time, Mistress.” Chloe’s voice was a caress. “You have nothing to fear from me. I’m just surprised you didn’t know afore this.”
Helena opened her mouth to protest, but Chloe lifted Helena’s feet, swinging her legs onto the bed. “You rest now. The first months can be treacherous.”
When the maid had gone, Helena’s thoughts scrambled for acceptance of a new life which should be a joy, but in reality filled her with dread. She should have known from that first, blissful meeting with William, that such happiness carried a price. Whenever they were thrown together in public, their gazes sought each other out, their pressed hands and contrived nearness all the more thrilling, with the knowledge that its promise would be fulfilled later at Berkeley Street.
Then she tried to recall the last time she had shared a bed with Guy, fearing not only his disbelief, but his disappointment. If he suspected the child wasn’t his, would he denounce her? What was she going to do?
Shivering, Helena pulled the coverlet up to her chest and lay staring up at the canopy over the bed, her last conscious thought before she drifted off to sleep, was to wonder where the painted cherubs had gone.
* * *
September 1690, Palmer House, London, – Helena
News of the fighting at the River Boyne had filled the London Gazette all through the summer; newsboys raced through the streets with shrill voices proclaiming the king’s victory. Then the celebrations had died down and Helena’s concerns for Aaron overruled her need to apprise Guy of his imminent fatherhood.
A messenger arrived at Palmer House, causing a stir among the servants on the landing outside her room. Helena pushed aside her tray of chocolate to see what the commotion was about.
“He’s wearing Royal livery!” Chloe cried, reluctantly abandoning her place at the balustrade alongside several housemaids.
“I cannot go down, I’m dishabille.” Helena peered down into the hall below. “Is your Master still in the house?” At Chloe’s nod, she beckoned her closer. “Quickly, you must help me dress.” Before her stays were fastened, Guy entered the room without knocking, a sheet of fine parchment in one hand with the seal broken.
“What is it?” Helena asked, throwing Chloe a warning not to tie the laces of her corset too tight.
Guy’s brow furrowed and he bit his lip. “Aaron has been injured.” Helena inhaled sharply, but before she could speak, he held up a reassuring hand. “A head wound and a badly gashed arm. He has lain gravely ill for some time.”
“That explains why we haven’t heard before.” Helena mouthed thanks to the unseen powers who had given her brother back to her for a second time, and forced her breathing to slow. If she fainted, questions might be asked for which she was not ready. “And now?”
“His Majesty has asked if he might send him here to complete his recovery.” He lifted the letter. “This letter is in his own hand and bears his private seal.”
“You don’t mind Aaron’s coming here do you?” Guilt made her tone ingratiating. “I’ll take care for him myself, and we’ve servants enough—”
It was an unnecessary plea. Guy’s expression showed he had no intention of ignoring what amounted to a Royal command, despite his inherent jealousy of his brother-in-law.
“Of course Aaron must come here, my dear. I doubt there would be such care available to him at Kensington Palace.”
* * *
September 1690, Palmer House, London – Helena
Helena chose her moment when she would apprise Guy of her news, which she did as they stood on the top step of the entrance to Palmer Ho
use, just as the carriage that brought Aaron home pulled onto the drive.
“Why did you not tell me before?” Guy turned to her with a look of delighted puzzlement. “When we dined last evening you mentioned not a word.”
“Perhaps we could discuss it later, Guy.” She touched his arm briefly and turned away, conscious of his gaze burning into her as Aaron emerged was helped out of the carriage by a footman.
Guy looked about to say more, but moved aside as a servant in royal livery passed them with a heavy valise.
Helena had been too worried about her own predicament to speculate on how bad Aaron’s condition might be. Now she hardly recognised the pale, colourless man who stood unsteadily on the gravel, his left arm heavily bandaged and strapped against his chest.
A badly tied piece of linen was fastened round his head, beneath which his wheat-coloured hair fell, lank and stringy onto his shoulders.
“Perhaps we might have a daughter this time, Helena,” Guy whispered beside her.
Ignoring him, Helena ran forward and grasped her brother’s undamaged arm, shock at his appearance making her indiscrete. “Aaron, you look dreadful!”
Aaron accepted the proffered arm, but his lop-sided grin did not reach his eyes. “I survived. Though I dare not risk another battle.” He attempted a shrug that turned into a grimace. “I doubt Fate will intervene a third time.”
Helena ran alongside, gabbling like an indulgent mother. “You mustn’t think about involving yourself in more fighting. You must rest and grow strong again, give your body time to heal. We’ve set aside a room for you, one with a lovely view of the gardens.”
Chapter Twenty
October 1690, Palmer House, London – Helena
Helena eased the door closed gently and entered what everyone now referred to as Aaron’s room. The sight of him propped up on the chaise by the window in a banyan and silk cap made her heart turn over, his injured arm propped on a cushion. Although he seemed well in himself, he had been unusually quiet since his arrival from Ireland over a week before.
The Goldsmith's Wife (The Woulfes of Loxsbeare Book 2) Page 16
