‘That’s settled them. I’ll lose no time in making enquiries about vessels leaving for France. Hopefully it will be soon, but in the meantime we must try not to draw attention to ourselves.’
As they reached the port the scene was quite extraordinary, unlike anything she had ever seen. The quay, piled high with casks filled with rum and drums of tobacco and other merchandise, was busy, a wide expanse of ships and shrouds and skeletal rigging all a-tangle on the river. The tide was beginning to swell the Rivers Avon and Frome, quickly covering the fetid mud, gradually setting to right the vessels that had been lying at a slant, waiting for the incoming tide to right them once more. Arabella drew the hood of her cloak over her hair, drawing it across her nose and mouth to lessen the awful stench of rotting fish, the filth of humanity and the reek of hot pitch.
Seeing Parliamentary soldiers on the streets, she was relieved when they eventually secured a room in a tavern set away from the harbour and down an alley shared by a complex of tenements. The tavern was clean, its walls whitewashed. Oil lamps were fixed to its walls and the beams crossing the ceiling. Its clientele was made up of mostly seamen off the ships in the port and its food, as they would discover, was palatable.
Giving the landlord their false names and paying in advance, to the strains of a jolly tune a sailor was singing, they were shown to a room under the eaves overlooking the narrow street. A casement window hung perilously far over the street below. It was not a large room, but there was a chest, a cupboard, a mirror on the wall above the washstand and a double bed made up with clean bedding. A truckle slotted underneath would be suitable for Dickon.
After they had eaten Edward left the tavern to go to the port to see about obtaining a passage to France. He knew Commonwealth soldiers would be watching the port for fleeing Royalists, but it was a risk he had to take. He was fortunate. A small vessel, the Albion, was to leave some time during the next two days for Le Havre. The captain was ashore, but his first mate saw no reason why he couldn’t book passage for himself, his wife and child. Leaving payment for the passage and intending to call back later to speak to the captain, he returned to the tavern to give Arabella the news.
* * *
Later in the day when he was returning to the inn after making final preparations for their departure with the captain of the Albion, without thinking he straightened the stooped form he had adopted and stood tall. Removing his hat to scratch his head, he drew the attention of a young soldier, who had been watching him for some time as he walked along the quay.
The soldier continued to watch him, thinking he was uncommonly tall, his hair long and black and a black beard covering the lower half of his face. With the whole of the West Country and beyond looking for the son of the late King Charles, who had been proclaimed King in Scotland before coming south with an army of Scots, seeking glory and reward, the ambitious soldier soon convinced himself that here was the fugitive, Charles Stuart.
Wasting no more time, he stepped in front of him. ‘Might I have a word, sir?’
With alarm running down his spine, Edward lowered his head and tried to push past his assailant. ‘You’re mistaken,’ he mumbled. Taking stock of the situation immediately and realising that to try to run would only draw further attention to himself, he took a step to walk away calmly.
‘Do not run if you value your life.’
Chapter Six
The scene through the mullioned windows downstairs in the tavern where Arabella was waiting for Edward was distorted, but it appeared some kind of disturbance was taking place. Feeling a sense that something was amiss, then hoisting Dickon up into her arms, she left the tavern.
A small crowd had gathered in the street. As she pushed her way through, it immediately became obvious that what she had feared from the outset was about to unfold before her eyes. Suddenly weakened, she had to fight to keep her knees from buckling beneath her. Her heart was seized by sudden terror. Heedless of the danger to herself she was about to dash to Edward, but some instinct made her stop herself.
‘Name. What’s your name?’ The soldier stood his ground, his voice ringing out sharply as he beckoned to his fellow roundheads.
‘Brody. Will Brody.’
Arabella cringed inwardly. When Edward said his name why, oh, why did he have to say it with the simple pride of a man of the nobility?
The soldier scowled at him, unconvinced. ‘From where, Will Brody? Where are you from?’
‘Gloucester.’
The soldier was distracted when an authoritative-looking man astride a large grey stallion rode into the crowd. Such was this man’s aura of importance that it parted like the Red Sea to let him through. The closer he came, his features grew more recognisable. Arabella’s heart almost ceased to beat.
It was Malcolm Lister.
She stared in disbelief and was tempted to rub her eyes as if that would prove this was just a terrible dream. Despair filled her as she realised Edward had not eluded him after all. Looking at Edward, who was watching him closely, she knew he had recognised him. She could only guess at the intensity of his feelings from the way he bunched and unbunched his fists at his sides.
‘Who have we got here?’ Colonel Lister asked the soldier coldly.
‘Says his name’s Brody. He looks more like Charles Stuart to me.’
Coming to a halt, Colonel Lister looked down at the prisoner. His eyes glittered in triumph when he met those of the man who was no longer cowed. He laughed then, a thin, discordant sound.
‘Well, well. Who would have thought it? Charles Stuart it is not, but this man is still a prize worth having. Edward Grey.’ The name rolled off his tongue with a cat-like purr. ‘At last I have you. Caught like a rat in a trap. Restrain this man, lest he try to escape.’
Two men sprang forward. A rope was produced and Edward’s hands tied in front of him.
Colonel Lister looked down at his enemy, his smile turned into a sneer. ‘You will not escape me, Edward Grey. I have looked for you long and hard. Now I have you I know how to deal with you. As a traitor you will be taken to London to stand trial. It will be done lawfully, but do not think for one minute you will escape with your life.’
‘I am no traitor, Lister. I did my duty as I conceived it had to be done. King Charles called me to his side. I did but answer that call—as many loyal Englishmen did.’
‘Aye, and died for him—as he did on the scaffold. Under Cromwell the Commonwealth stands for fairness and equality among men—men who were willing to oppose the King and have nothing to do with his plans. England will be a finer country without him and his son, who they say has been crowned King north of the border.’
‘He is the lawful King of England. Others may wish to ignore the fact, but I cannot. I cannot rejoice in an England without a king. I would sooner die than live under those conditions.’
Colonel Lister’s lip curled. ‘We will see how we can accommodate you. Cromwell is a man of great power, a leader, who played no small part in bringing about the downfall of the King. He is to be congratulated.’
Edward answered in a cool, even voice, ‘Cromwell is a brilliant soldier—a genius, in fact, but he is not a man of honour. If he were, he would not have executed the King. And you were ever of one mind with Cromwell, were you not, Lister.’
‘No man makes up my mind for me.’
Edward looked up at his brother-in-law with open contempt. ‘As I discovered to my regret when I wed your sister.’
‘Much good it did her,’ Colonel Lister ground out angrily.
‘I agree. The only good thing to come out of that was Dickon. Your hounding of me has nothing to do with Cromwell or the war. Admit it. Because I took the King’s side you were against our union. Anne was ambitious. Her heart was set on a life at court. Since her death your ambition to seize my son and insinuate him into your household seems to h
ave become an obsession. Lock me away in the Tower if you must, but if you think you can seize my son you will not succeed. You are insane if you think that, insane if you believe I will hand him over to you and your barren wife.’
Under Edward’s contemptuous expression Colonel Lister glared angrily at him, beginning to lose his precarious hold on his temper. ‘Nay, Edward Grey, that I am not. It is not for you to insult me—or my wife. If you look for insanity, look to your dead King. It was he, with his extravagance, his callous disregard of our laws, and his smug assumption for the divine right of kings, who led your fellow Royalists to war and ultimately to disaster and cost him his crown. He overrode Parliament and put himself above the law of the land. Like him you are no longer of any account. You are nothing.’
Edward smiled. ‘You are wrong. I know who I am, and on what account I hold myself—as does the King’s son—Charles Stuart. God willing he will return to England and soon be sitting in his rightful place at Whitehall. He has been proclaimed King of England and Scotland. That he will be until the day he dies.’
Colonel Lister’s lips tightened with derision. ‘Which may not be long in coming. He will be run to earth before he takes ship for France. You can guarantee it.’ Pulling his horse back, he looked at the man holding Edward Grey. ‘See that he is mounted and we will be on our way. He might not be alone. He fled Worcester with a malignant by the name of Stephen Charman. Keep looking.’
As much as Arabella wished to be strong, her body trembled and she gripped Dickon to her, pulling her shawl across her face and shielding Dickon with her hand should Colonel Lister look her way and recognise her. More people had gathered round to see what was happening and for a moment a pin might have been heard to drop. But then some began to jeer at the prisoner who was now surrounded by Commonwealth soldiers, bristling with arms. Others who remained sympathetic to the King’s cause stood mute, their faces blank.
Out of the corner of his eye Edward must have seen her for she saw his shoulders stiffen. Briefly he glanced her way, the look he gave her reminding her of the promise she had made to him, of what she must do if he was captured and she remained free. He didn’t acknowledge her presence again. She didn’t move for several heartbeats and then her insides began to lose their tension. She did not know how long she stood there as part of the crowd, her heart in her mouth. It was as if she had been turned to stone.
With her eyes blinded by tears she watched as Edward was hauled atop a horse and led away. Soldiers surrounded him, one of them leading his horse by the rein, making it impossible for him to escape. She clung to Dickon who, aware of the tension in Arabella and sensing all was not well, had begun to cry. All her strength was concentrated in her arms as her eyes clung to the receding group of soldiers surrounding the proud figure of Edward Grey, until she could see them no more.
The crowd slowly began to disperse. With some effort, putting Dickon down and wiping his tears away, holding his hand tight, she forced her way back through the crowd, trying hard not to think what they would do to Edward.
He was Sir Edward Grey, a close friend and confidant of Charles Stuart, wanted for his traitorous activities during the Civil War.
He would be taken to London and executed.
She would never see him again.
Her fear for Edward was great, but there was nothing she could do for him without jeopardising her chances of getting Dickon to France. Like a sleepwalker and filled with grief and despair, she returned to the tavern. Suddenly she found herself thrust into another world fraught with nightmares. Even as she feared for Edward’s fate her mind was working. What best to do? She would not allow herself to fall to pieces. What she had to do must be done in a calm and rational way.
* * *
Nightmares pursued Arabella all the way to France as she suddenly found herself cast into the mercy of events. A woman alone with a child and all the threats that posed made her anxious. Edward was for ever on her mind, his ordeal adding to her distress, and the knowledge that when her task was over and Dickon safe with Edward’s sister Verity, her link to Edward would be severed.
The sky was a collage of soft pastel colours as the Albion sailed into the open sea. A gentle breeze filled the sails and wood beams creaked and groaned as it rode the water. Standing on the deck, holding Dickon in her arms, Arabella inhaled a scent of brine. She looked to the horizon upon which the coast of France would soon appear, trying to ignore the misery of her situation, but it was nigh impossible. Suddenly her life had become complicated and dangerous, and nothing would ever be the same again.
* * *
The journey from Le Havre to Paris had been a long and arduous one for Arabella. It was difficult keeping Dickon entertained in the close confines of a coach crammed with other passengers and she was exceedingly glad to reach Paris. Dickon missed his father and could not understand why he had left them. With her heart heavy with sorrow and missing Edward more than she could ever have imagined, she was unable to explain to the child why he was not with them.
Stepping down from the coach, holding Dickon’s hand tight with one hand and clutching her travelling bag with the other, she looked about her. Paris was all so bewildering to her. It was a busy, bustling place and she was overwhelmed by the press of people.
Like every other city on earth it was dirty, smelly and noisy and had its share of beggars, cripples and ragged waifs. Carriers, carters, merchants and vendors were all talking and shouting together, bargaining and cursing in French and a babble of different languages. She stepped quickly back, pressing herself against a wall as a servant cleared a passage for his noble master on horseback. The rotting debris in the gutters mingled with the aromatic smell of baked pies and cakes in the shops that lined the street.
Her French was reasonable so, combined with the directions Edward had given her and making a few enquiries along the way, she had no difficulty finding her way to the small two-storeyed, half-timbered, gabled house in a modest neighbourhood in a quiet quarter of the city where Verity lived with her husband and two children. There was a small enclosed garden at the back, which was ideal for the children to play in.
In a dress of grey silk, its folds catching the light, and with her deep-blue eyes and dark hair drawn back from her face with a few curls stressing the line of her neck, Verity bore such a startling resemblance to her brother that it brought a lump to Arabella’s throat. Her efficiency and the way she took control of everything the moment Arabella arrived on her doorstep with Verity’s nephew reminded her of Alice. She felt her spirits rise at the warmth of her welcome. Verity remembered her with fondness.
Dickon was handed over to Pauline, a young and extremely efficient female servant, her curly hair covered by a white cap. She had accompanied the family from England—the only servant the family could afford since money was scarce.
Arabella smiled a little nervously on finding herself alone with Verity following the turmoil of their arrival. ‘I apologise for my appearance. It’s been a long journey to get here.’
‘We’ll soon have you cleaned up and some food inside you,’ Verity said, taking Arabella into a drawing room and indicating that she be seated.
Arabella perched on the edge of a chair in the charming room, painted and wallpapered in various pastel tones of green and gold. Next to her chair was a branch of tall candles and a piece of tapestry Verity was working on.
‘Arabella,’ Verity went on, clearly puzzled by Arabella’s surprise arrival with her nephew and deeply anxious about her brother, ‘please tell me about Edward. I worry about him constantly and am impatient to learn what has befallen him.’
Arabella bowed her head, swallowing down a lump that had risen in her throat. ‘The news I bring is so bad that I scarcely know where to begin.’
Verity seated herself across from her, clasping her hands to keep them from trembling in her lap. She was tense, expecting to hear
the worst about her brother. ‘Tell me. I have felt so cut off from everything since we came to France that I have no idea what is happening in England. I’m afraid the news is always gloomy. We heard there was a battle—at Worcester, I believe. It is said to be the final battle of the war and that the young King Charles is a fugitive.’
Arabella sighed wearily, relieved now that her journey was over. The discomforts she had encountered, combined with her own utter powerlessness to aid Edward, had done nothing to improve her spirits. She had not slept since leaving Bristol and had eaten only little, such was her state of depression.
‘Tell me, Arabella,’ Verity prompted gently, her eyes tormented with worry. ‘Do not spare me. He is my only sibling and I love him dearly. You must tell me everything.’
Arabella raised her head and gazed into her eyes with such an expression of compassion that she saw Verity tremble slightly. ‘He was arrested at Bristol before we had time to board the vessel for France. I think they will have taken him to London. I—I fear for his life.’
Verity stared at her, then, uttering a small cry, she got quickly to her feet, her hands going to her face. She paced the room before coming to a halt in front of Arabella. ‘What can we do? Can anything be done to save him?’
Arabella shook her head. ‘I don’t see what can be done. You see, the man who arrested him was Colonel Lister. Malcolm Lister. I—I believe there is bad blood between them.’
Verity paled visibly, sinking back into the chair she had just vacated. ‘Malcolm Lister? But he hates my brother. Ever since he married Anne... He never forgave her for marrying a Royalist.’
‘Yes. Edward told me. He also told me that Malcolm Lister’s wife is unable to bear a child and that he wants to make Dickon his heir.’ She went on to tell Verity of the circumstances that had brought Edward to Bircot Hall, his flight from Worcester and his decision to try to reach France with Dickon. ‘Fearing he would be arrested, Edward asked me to help him. He told me where I could find you should he be taken.’
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