Intrigued

by Bertrice Small

He shook his head wearily. He had never thought when his mother asked him to allow Autumn to visit this summer that she would prove to be such a handful. He kept thinking of her as his baby sister, but as she had so succinctly pointed out to him earlier, she was going to be nineteen in another month’s time. He wondered why his mother and stepfather had not found a suitable husband for Autumn; but then he remembered the difficulties they had had marrying off his two elder sisters. And who the hell was there in the eastern Highlands for the Duke of Glenkirk’s daughter to marry? Autumn had needed to go to court, but these last years of civil war had made such a visit impossible, and then his Uncle Charles had been executed. Now what English court there was existed in exile, sometimes in France, sometimes in Holland. He didn’t know what they were going to do with this sister, but he suspected they had better do it soon, for Autumn was ripe for bedding and could easily find her way into mischief.

  The day he had planned on going to Worcester a messenger from Glenkirk arrived before dawn. It was early October. The clansman had had a difficult time eluding the parliamentary forces in Scotland but, moving with great caution, he had finally managed to cross over the border. From there he had made his way easily to Queen’s Malvern. Grim-faced and obviously quite exhausted, he told the duke his news was for Lady Autumn first. The duke sent for his wife and sister, who came quickly, still in her dressing gown, hearing her visitor was a Glenkirk man.

  “Ian More! Has my father sent you to escort me home?” Autumn asked excitedly. “How is my mother? ’Tis good to see one of our own.”

  Wordlessly—and, the duke noted, with tears in his eyes—the messenger handed the letter to Autumn. “ ’Tis from yer mam, m’lady.”

  Eagerly Autumn broke the seal of the missive and opened it. Her eyes scanned the parchment, her face growing paler as her eyes flew over the written words, a cry of terrible anguish finally escaping her as she slumped against her brother, obviously terribly distraught, the letter slipping from her hand to fall to the carpet. She was shaking with emotion.

  The clansman picked up the parchment, handing it to the duke, who now had an arm about his sister. Charlie quickly read his mother’s words to her daughter, his handsome face contorting in a mixture of sorrow and anger. Finally laying aside the letter, he said to the clansman, “You will remain until you are rested, Ian More, or does my mother wish you to stay in England?”

  “I’ll go back as soon as the beast and I have had a few days’ rest, m’lord. Forgive me for being the bearer of such woeful tidings.”

  “Stable your horse, and then go to the kitchens for your supper. Smythe will find you a place to sleep,” the duke told the messenger. Then he turned to comfort his sister, who had begun to weep piteously.

  “What is it?” Bess asked her husband, realizing that the news the Glenkirk man had brought was very serious.

  “My f-father i-is d-d-dead!” Autumn sobbed. “Ohh, damn Master Cromwell and his parliamentary forces to hell!” She pulled from her brother’s gentle embrace and ran from the family hall where they had been seated.

  “Oh, Charlie, I am so sorry!” Bess said. She looked after her young sister-in-law. “Shall I go after her?”

  The duke shook his head. “Nay. Autumn considers such a public show of emotion on her part a weakness. She has been that way since her childhood. She will want to be alone.”

  “What happened?” Bess queried her husband.

  “Jemmie Leslie died at Dunbar in defense of my cousin, King Charles. He should not have gone, not at his age, not with the history of misfortune the Stuarts always seem to visit on the Leslies of Glenkirk, but you know what an honorable man he was. He has paid for his loyalty with his life. Mama writes that she will come to England before winter to live in the dower house at Cadby, which is hers. She asks that Autumn remain with us, or go to Henry until she comes. My half-brother, Patrick Leslie, is devastated by his papa’s death, and chary of the responsibilites he must now take on as Glenkirk’s new master. Mama feels he will better assume those obligations if she is not there for him to fall back upon. She is right, of course.”

  “But how will she be able to travel under the circumstances?” Bess fretted.

  He chuckled. “She will find a way, I guarantee you, Bess. When Mama wants something, little dares to stand in her way. It is Autumn we must worry about. She is not above going to find Cromwell and attempting to kill him herself. We will have to dissuade her from any and all thoughts of instant revenge.”

  “And just how will you do that?” his wife asked him.

  “Autumn is loyal first to the family. I shall tell her that any foolishness on her part will reflect on all of us. On the Leslies of Glenkirk, and on me and mine in particular, on India and Oxton, on the Southwoods, and the cousins at Clearfield and Blackthorne, on poor, plump old Great-Aunt Willow and her brood; on us all. She will swallow her anger, even if it kills her, for their sakes. That much I can guarantee. And when Mama arrives she will know just what to do to distract Autumn from any thought of revenge. Mama has always been clever that way,” the duke said. “She is the only one who can control my little sister. Papa, heaven help him, adored and spoiled her terribly.”

  Autumn kept to her bedchamber for the next several days, her maidservant, Lily, bringing her meals which, for the first two days, were sent back uneaten. On the third day Autumn nibbled a bit from her tray, and by the end of the week she was once again eating. She came from her room to speak with Ian More before he began his long ride back to Scotland, and Glenkirk.

  “Were you at Dunbar?” she asked him as they sat before the fire in the family hall.

  “I was, m’lady,” he answered her somberly.

  “How many went, and how many came home?” she asked.

  “Hundred and fifty rode out. Thirty-six rode home, m’lady,” was his reply. “ ’Twere only luck any of us came back.”

  “My father had no luck that day,” Autumn noted aloud.

  “Stuarts ain’t nae been fortunate for our people, m’lady. Worse, this new king dinna even look like a Stuart. He be a dark laddie, m’lady, but he hae his family’s charm. Yer da was nae happy to follow the Stuarts, but he were a man of honor, Jemmie Leslie, God bless him!”

  Autumn nodded. “Aye,” she said. Then she handed Ian More a sealed packet. “Give my mother this when you return. I will await her coming here at Queen’s Malvern.”

  “Will we ever see ye at Glenkirk again, m’lady?” he asked her, his plain face concerned.

  Autumn shook her head wearily. “I do not know, Ian More. I honestly do not know. It certainly did not occur to me when I left Glenkirk last April that I should never again see it. I know not what will happen to me now that my father is dead.”

  “The new duke will look after ye, m’lady,” Ian said firmly.

  “Patrick?” Autumn laughed for the first time since she had learned of her father’s death. “Patrick will have all he can do to look after himself and Glenkirk, Ian More. Papa’s death will have shocked my brother by its suddenness, but even more horrific for him will be his precipitous ascent to all the responsibility Glenkirk entails. Patrick will have no time for me. I am better off, though not greatly so, remaining in England with Charlie and Henry.”

  A small smile touched the clansman’s lips. Lady Autumn Leslie was far more astute than he would have previously given her credit for; but then, lassie or nae, she was a Leslie. Leslie women were ever noted for being resourceful, and intelligent. Obviously the lass was finally growing up, and about time, he considered. He arose from his seat opposite her and bowed neatly. “I’ll deliver yer message to yer mam as quickly as I can, m’lady. Hae ye any word for yer brother?”

  “Tell him I wish him good fortune, and God bless,” Autumn replied. “Tell him I hope we will meet again one day.”

  Ian More felt tears pricking his eyelids. Damn Covenanters! he thought irritably. Why could they not all be content to leave everything as it was instead of fighting, and costing Scotland more sons and f
uture generations? Why did their beloved duchess and her daughter have to flee from their home? Damn the Covenanters! Damn the Puritans, and damn the royal Stuarts as well! He swallowed hard. “I’ll deliver yer kind words to Duke Patrick,” he told the girl. “Take care of yerself, m’lady.”

  “And you also, Ian More,” Autumn replied. “God be with you on your return journey. Take no chances.”

  “I won’t, m’lady,” but they both knew he lied. Ian More would do whatever he had to, to return to Glenkirk and deliver his messages as quickly as he could.

  It was almost the end of October when the Duke of Lundy and his eldest son finally traveled into the town of Worcester, a good day’s ride from Queen’s Malvern.

  “We’ll be back in time for your birthday, and I promise to bring you a fine gift,” he told his sister.

  “I’m not going to celebrate my birthday any longer,” Autumn told him dourly. “At least not until I am a married woman. I shall remain eighteen until then, Charlie, but if you should like to bring me a gift because you love me, then I shall accept it,” she told him, a twinkle in her eyes.

  “You shall have your gift because I love you, sister,” he assured her. He was relieved to see that Autumn was shedding her initial grief over her father’s death. She would never forget Jemmie Leslie, but she realized life must continue onward. Hopefully their mother would arrive before winter set in, and together she and Autumn would heal. Charles Frederick Stuart could but imagine the sorrow the Duchess of Glenkirk was experiencing now. She had lost two husbands before she was twenty. His own father, Prince Henry Stuart, who had been her lover, had died two months after his own birth. She had been reluctant to remarry, but Jemmie Leslie would not take no for an answer. They had been wed for thirty-five years. How would she go on without him?

  He rode to Worcester with his seven-year-old son by his side, surrounded by his own men-at-arms. Worcestershire was royalist country, but it did not hurt to be careful. About them the countryside lay peaceful in the mid-autumn sunshine. The fields were harvested, and the gleaners busily at work in them. The orchards had been picked clean of their apples and pears. Cattle and sheep grazed on the fading green hillsides. They reached the town just before sunset, putting up at The Crown and Stag, a large, comfortable inn where the duke was well known.

  They went to church the following morning in the cathedral by the river. Freddie was wide-eyed at the great altar, the soaring arches, and the magnificent stained-glass windows. Afterwards they set about to find the thread his wife had requested. It was more difficult than he had anticipated, but finally in the shop of a small and insignificant mercer they found thread. A great deal of black, as Bess had warned him, but still a goodly supply of white and colors. The Duke of Lundy bought as much as the mercer would let him have, paying a premium gladly for it, however. Still, who knew when he would get into town again, or if this mercer would even still have thread.

  He spent the rest of the day showing his young son about the beautiful town. Frederick Stuart had never been to Worcester before. In fact, he had been nowhere other than his relations’ homes. Seeing his son had a good supper, Charlie put the lad to bed. Then he went to join his friends, which was his true reason for coming to Worcester. When they could, the local gentlemen met to exchange news and gossip about the civil war, and the latest of Cromwell’s edicts. The men sat together in a discreet private room, safe from spies and protected by the innkeeper, who was an ardent royalist.

  “They say Dunbar was a debacle, and the king was beaten by an army a quarter the size of his,” Lord Hailey remarked. “How the hell could such a thing happen? The rumor is, the king will leave Scotland and go to his sister’s court in Holland, or to his mother in Paris.”

  “In answer to your first question, Hailey, the Scots left their position of strength in the hills to come down to the plain. They did it once before at the first battle of Dunbar, several hundred years ago. They do not, it seems, learn from their mistakes. They lost that first battle for the same reason,” the Duke of Lundy told his companions.

  “How do you know so much about it, Charlie?” asked his friend, Lord Moreland.

  “My mother sent a messenger down from Scotland to tell my sister that her father had been killed at Dunbar. The messenger was one of the few survivors from my stepfather’s troop. He told me all about the battle. When Jemmie Leslie fell, his people took his body and withdrew. You know the reputation Cromwell’s men have for piking the wounded, and stealing everything they can from the bodies. The Glenkirk men didn’t intend to leave their duke to such tender mercies. They took his body, gathered up the horses, and made their way home.”

  “Jemmie Leslie dead? I can hardly believe it,” Lord Moreland said.

  “God rest him,” Lord Hailey, who had been the Duke of Glenkirk’s contemporary, replied. “I remember him trying to court your mother, and hunting with your grandfather and uncles. He was a good man! Damn Cromwell and his revolution!”

  “You sound like my sister,” Charlie said with a small chuckle, “although she refers to ‘Cromwell. and his pocky Roundheads.’ ”

  “Not publicly, I hope,” Lord Hailey said, concerned.

  “I have warned her about curbing her tongue,” the duke said. “It will be better when our mother arrives.”

  “Your mother is coming down from Scotland? God’s blood, man! She’ll never make it with all those parliamentary troopers running amuck about the countryside. Can you not stop her?” Lord Hailey demanded.

  “Nay, I cannot,” Charlie said simply. “She’ll travel well protected, I assure you. As for the rumors of my cousin, Charles, fleeing Scotland, put no stock in it. Charles has not yet been properly crowned. He will remain at least until that notable event has taken place.”

  “But Cromwell’s people hold Edinburgh,” Lord Moreland reasoned, draining his tankard of wine.

  “Scots kings are traditionally crowned at Scone, and our forces hold Scone,” the duke answered.

  “And when the king is formally crowned, will Scotland rise up to aid him?” Lord Plympton said.

  “I don’t know,” Charlie said quietly, and he refilled his own tankard. “Scotland has been torn for years by religious strife. I would not be surprised if they had not had enough of war and desire nothing more than peace. If this desire is stronger than their nationalism, and loyalty to King Charles II, then we in England must take up the king’s banner to rid ourselves of these Roundheads and Puritans.”

  The air was blue with the haze from their pipes as the men smoked their Virginia tobacco, drank wine and October ale, and talked among themselves. The English were, they knew, just as tired of war. Would anyone have the energy to overthrow Cromwell and the Parliamentarians? Most of them had not trusted the Scots Stuart kings who had followed old Queen Bess almost fifty years ago. Still, this second Charles Stuart had been born in England and was well liked. He was, to their minds, the Stuarts’ first real English king. There were those sitting among them who considered that if the late Prince Henry, who had been King James I’s eldest son, had been permitted to wed with the beautiful widowed Marchioness of Westleigh, now Jasmine Leslie, it would have been this Charles Frederick Stuart seated with them here tonight who would have been their king. And he would not have alienated the parliament and their Puritan allies the way his uncle, Charles I, had done. Charles Frederick Stuart would not have lost his head.

  “So,” grumbled Lord Plympton, “we must sit here helpless while we are governed by a bunch of commoners who have had the temerity to dissolve the House of Lords and claim to have abolished our monarchy. Bah, say I, to all of them!”

  His companions laughed. They felt just as helpless as did their companion, but for now they were forced to wait for their king. Suddenly the door to their private room flew open to admit the plump and breathless Lord Billingsly.

  “Get you home, those of you who can!” he gasped. “There are Roundhead troopers been seen in the area. And the rumor is, they are being led by Sir
Simon Bates, the cold-hearted devil who slaughtered Sir Gerald Croft’s family over in Oxfordshire!”

  “Who told you that, Billingsly?” Lord Moreland demanded.

  “I saw the Roundheads myself as I rode toward the town. Believe you me, I got behind the nearest hedge as fast as I could,” came the honest reply. “I’m not of a mind to make my wife a widow yet, gentlemen.”

  “She’d be the merriest widow in England, Puritans or no,” murmured Lord Moreland to the Duke of Lundy.

  “Damnation!” Charlie swore. “I can’t leave for Queen’s Malvern until the morning, for there is no moon to light the road. Bess is alone with Autumn and the children.”

  “Billingsly may be mistaken,” Lord Moreland soothed his friend.

  “I’m not!” came the indignant response. “Get home as quickly as you can, my lord duke, though they did not seem to be headed in your direction. Still, I would want to be with my family if they came my way.”

  “I’ll go at first light,” Charlie said.

  “What about your little lad?” Moreland asked.

  “Freddie comes with me,” the duke said. “His mother would have a fit if I left him behind, even for safety’s sake. Jesu! I hope those bastards don’t come near Queen’s Malvern. My sister will be unable to keep her temper, especially with her father now dead at Cromwell’s hands. God have mercy on us all, gentlemen. We’ll meet again when we can, though the lord knows when that will be.”

  The duke, his son, and their men departed Worcester just before first light the following morning. At that same time a cowherd in a field at Queen’s Malvern saw the troop of soldiers coming toward him in the distance and ran as fast as he could for the house, shouting as he went to warn anyone within hearing of his voice.

  “Roundheads! Roundheads!” the cowherd yelled at the top of his voice. “Roundheads coming over the hill!” He dashed through the kitchen gardens into the buttery with his news.

  A serving wench ran up the stairs from the kitchens to warn the rest of the house. The duchess hurried from her bedchamber to the nurseries. The nursemaids already had Sabrina and little Willy up, and were dressing them as quickly as they could.