“She’ll be better when Father gets back,” Henry said, with forced lightness.
“When Father gets back,” Helena echoed, but even less conviction.
The sun slipped behind a cloud and the temperature on the landing dropped. A crow on a nearby tree set up a high-pitched screech.
Henry shivered.
“What’s going to happen, Helena?” he murmured, his chin on his bent knees.
“I don’t know.” Helena chewed at a cuticle on her thumb, something she used to do when she was little, though she had taken to the habit again this past month.
“Then tell me about Great Grandfather Julius, and how he built Loxsbeare for his child- bride.” At his groan, she nudged him again. “Go on, you’re much better at storytelling than I am.”
The pleading look on her face made him laugh aloud, shattering the tension.
“It was the year sixteen hundred and thirty two…”
* * *
Jonathan’s bay Iberian mount grew restless as he and his commanding officer, Nathaniel Wade, led their infantry onto the moor. They had been marching for almost an hour in blanketing darkness, the smell of peat marsh strong in their nostrils. Keeping the men quiet proved an added burden, as an occasional muffled retching indicated some still suffered the effects of the rough cider they had drunk the night before.
They had managed to negotiate the Black Ditch without mishap. By Jonathan’s calculations, they ought to be close to the Langmoor Rhine, though he could not be sure they had yet passed the rock Godfrey said marked the edge of the ditch. In this clinging mist, they could just as easily have passed it without noticing.
Cursing the infernal Godfrey beneath his breath, Jonathan suspecting they were going the wrong way. Briefly, the mist parted, giving a clear view of the cavalry ahead, now bunched close together. The snorts of startled animals colliding in the dark as they struggled through knee deep mud.
“Why are they stopping?” Jonathan whispered, forced to halt.
“They cannot find the pludgeon,” Wade said sotto voice. “The planking Godfrey said was set across the ditch.”
The moon was full, but the fog lay so thick, his troop broke ranks and wandered about in the gloom. He dared not issue an order to re-assemble, as they were still under a strict order of silence. Johnathan cursed. Without knowing how deep the water was, he daren’t order his men across, and risk them drowning.
A murmur confirming that the pludgeon had been located moved backward among the ranks, and Jonathan saw Wade urging the men ahead.
“Thank goodness for tha-!” A flash and a shot split the night. Jonathan released a low groan, in the ensuing silence, hoping the discharged weapon was a fluke and meant nothing. Maybe the sleeping troopers had not heard.
Shouts and a rumble of drums started up in the distance.
The enemy was awake.
A ripple of fear ran through him and his thighs tightened on the saddle. Feversham’s men would be upon them in minutes.
A command to charge went up from the cavalry ahead, followed by thundering hooves heading away from them at speed.
Jonathan cursed again, this time in frustration. Grey had taken his cavalry forward too soon. They had no infantry support - and Aaron was among them.
“May God go with you, my son,” Jonathan murmured under his breath. He had no idea where his brother was, but thrust thoughts of him away. Edmund would survive, he always had.
“The royal troopers have been alerted!” a voice to his left brought Jonathan’s head round to Major Wade, who had pulled up beside him. His face was little more than a grey blur, but he was recognisable by the huge outline of his horse.
“That’s obvious, man!” Jonathan snarled. “We’re too far behind. We must get the men across the next ditch to back up Gray’s cavalry.”
“We cannot find a safe place to cross!” Wade jerked his panicked horse round.
“We’ll have to fire from this side of the ditch!” Jonathan yelled back. “Battle orders! Start firing!”
There was the click and slide of muskets being loaded, followed by volley after volley as their shots sailed across the moor, making no impression.
“Too low!” Jonathan yelled. “Fire higher!”
The men obeyed, and this time their shots found their mark. On the other side of the ditch, men screamed and fell. But there was no time for Jonathan to feel triumphant, for just then a massive flash and boom rent the air.
The royal cannon! Jonathan watched in horror as the weapon carved swathes through the ranks of his men. Bodies flew into the air or were cut to pieces, falling into the mud to be trampled by others who filled the gaps.
“Keep firing.” Fist raised, Jonathan rode up and down the line, shouting orders and rounding up stragglers, his eyes growing accustomed to the dim light.
Instead of breaching the ditch, Gray’s cavalry had split into two columns; one group had swung to the right, moving steadily towards the distant glow of hundreds of tiny lights coming from the direction of the town.
Jonathan frowned, peering ahead at those lights. Then he gave a loud, colourful curse, his guts cramping as it occurred to him what he was really looking at.
“Runner!” he screamed, rewarded by a swift-footed boy who hove into view.
“Get over to my Lord Grey,” he ordered the breathless boy. “Tell him those lights aren’t the town. They’re the matchlocks being made ready to fire. Tell Wade and the others to train their muskets on those lights.”
The runner sped away and Jonathan prayed he was in time. If the troopers fired first, they would cut the cavalry to pieces and scatter them over the field.
The distant boom of cannon fire made Jonathan smile, partly because it wasn’t in his direction. From the shrieks that rose from the king’s troops, it was clear that Monmouth’s Dutch gunners were wreaking havoc among the Dumbarton’s Infantry; the indignant yelling of their officer to return fire confirmed it.
Gunfire screeched toward him, followed by a thick plume of bitter smoke that drifted across the field. The smoke stung his nostrils, engulfing the horses” heads as they wheeled in fright, plunging backward into the upcoming infantry.
Jonathan urged Buchan to one side, out of the way of the terrified horses, hoping Aaron had kept his seat, and his mount Strider, on course.
Most of Gray’s cavalry had fled the field. A blow; but there was nothing Jonathan could do. He hoped the handlers of the ammunition carts left at Peasey Farm would stand fast, as the horsemen were headed that way.
“Turnabout and line up by the ditch. Keep to the ditch, men!” Jonathan’s throat burned with shouting, though his message had the desired effect as the infantry formed a ragged line along the edge of what must be the Bussex Rhine.
Jonathan slashed and cut, grunted and flailed, fighting to keep his seat on Buchan, who reared and screamed in terror. It took all his strength to keep the animal from bolting. His head ached from the roar of the cannon, his voice hoarse from shouting for more ammunition from men too dazed to hear him, or too terrified to obey - for none came.
From the corner of his eye, Jonathan saw Monmouth, his half pike in his hand, waving his men onto the edge of the ditch, ordering them to fire, while in the distance Feversham’s officers ordered the Cavalry brought up for an attack.
Wiping sweat from his eyes with one hand, Jonathan looked up. No longer black as pitch, the sky showed purple and blue in the distance. Fingers of light crawled across the horizon, harbingers of a summer day so many would not see. Dawn was coming. How could the night have gone so soon?
The dragoons had formed into an imposing barrier behind the ditch. Musket fire continued off to the left, though all around him silence fell and horses pawed the ground, some whickering in fright. No one moved forward.
What are they waiting for?
Then it came to him. Of course. Feversham was holding off until daybreak so he could order a full charge in better light. Still nothing moved.
Well, come, if you
are coming, you bastards.
As if in response to Jonathan’s silent scream, a wave of horses and men flooded across the ditch across a waterlogged field, and the royal troopers fell on his men.
Jonathan’s chest swelled with pride at the sight of his ill-equipped troops, running full pelt at the royal horse, keeping up a constant fire on the foot battalions. There was the repeated wet whoosh of steel slicing into flesh, and the primal cries of men in agony doomed to be trampled by horses – friends” or foes”.
Dawn showed that the first enthusiastic wave of rebels had been forced back, the stalwarts who fought on being steadily shot or slashed without mercy.
Most of Jonathan’s men had been scattered, and even those still able to hear his orders were most likely dead, or too injured to obey. He urged Buchan on, between and over fallen men of both sides, his ears closed to the shrieks of the wounded, until his mounts flanks shook with exertion.
“I have more to ask of you, boy.” Jonathan reached forward and patted the clammy neck. “I have to find the Duke.”
Their options were few, but the next decision was not Jonathan’s to make. He found Lord Grey and Monmouth beside a massive tree at the edge of the field, their armour piled at their feet.
Buyse and Anton stood nearby, their faces haggard.
Jonathan halted beside them. “What now my Lord? Our men are all but slaughtered.”
“We have no choice, Woulfe.” Lord Grey stepped in front of Monmouth, who seemed unable to look at Jonathan. “We must get away as best we can.”
“You’re leaving us?” Jonathan’s anger made him reckless. “Look at them!” He waved an arm at the devastation on the field. “They’re being massacred. You cannot abandon them.”
Grey winced and made to step nearer, but Buchan gave a half-rear. Holding up a hand to fend the massive horse off, he raised his voice. “If the Duke is no longer here, the troopers may show some mercy.”
“You coward, Grey,” Jonathan growled, his head bent to inches from the man’s ear. “I’ll see you pay for this treachery!”
Grey started as if he had been slapped in the face, then his eyes narrowed and he stepped back, his place replaced by Monmouth, now mounted.
“You’ve been one of my best and most loyal, Jonathan.” The duke held out a hand toward him. “Come with us.”
Temptation pulled at Jonathan and he looked into the distance to where the Polden Hills, and possible freedom, stood. He sighed and turned back to Monmouth, though neither man spoke.
Monmouth nodded, dropped his hand and kicked his horse into a canter.
Jonathan watched them crest the hill, wondering if James Scott, Duke of Monmouth, could still hear the sound of the faithful men he had left behind as they fought to their death in the mud. For him.
He knew with certainty that he would never hear anything else.
Chapter 4
With over half the stable lads gone to join Monmouth, everyone had to pitch in with the outside chores.
Helena was unused to outdoor work. After an hour spent feeding horses and sweeping stables, she took out her temper on her hapless brother, who trailed behind her across the courtyard, muttering the odd complaint.
Glancing up, she saw Bayle and hastily smoothed down her stained skirt in embarrassment; keenly aware of her dirty apron, and dishevelled appearance. She realised he must have heard her shouting at Henry, and uttered imprecations under her breath while warmth crept up her neck.
No one at Loxsbeare would take her for a lady if she couldn’t control her temper in front of the servants.
She took in Bayle’s drawn face, and the way he stared back at her with lifeless eyes, and froze.
“Helena,” Henry protested from behind her. “Watch what you are doing, I nearly tripped…” Cold, muddy water had splashed onto her feet, but she paid no heed.
“What’s happened?” Helena demanded of Bayle, her voice strangled by dread.
“There was a battle,” Bayle began. “A terrible battle. Hundreds are dead.”
“Who’s dead?” Henry split a look of horror between them.
“Where?” Helena gasped. The yard swayed around her, and Bayle’s face blurred and receded. His hand came down upon her shoulder as if he sensed her fight to stay upright.
“Somewhere near Bridgwater,” he said, his voice low. “They attacked the King’s men last night.”
Helena tried to scream that he was wrong, but her throat constricted.
“The rebels fought bravely but the King’s men drove them off the field,” Bayle went on. “Those not killed have most likely been captured by now.”
“Captured?” Hendry’s bucket hit the cobbles with a thud. “They cannot be! Father said they were going to London. Bridgwater isn’t anywhere near…”
“Master Henry.” Bayle gripped his arm with his other hand, drawing them into a tight triangle. “Bridgwater is now full of troopers searching for escaped rebels. It’s all I know. We may hear more later.”
Henry clutched at Bayle’s arm. “What of the Duke?”
Helena glared at him. How could he mention that man’s name when his first thoughts should be of their family? Although tempted to harangue him for his lack of feeling, she asked instead, “how do you know all this, Bayle?”
“News has been filtering into The Ship Inn all morning. One of the tap boys came up to tell us.”
Nodding, Helena swiped a hand that came away wet, across her face, aware that several house servants had drifted out into the courtyard, watching curiously from a distance. “Don’t let them see you upset.” Bayle leaned closer, apparently having seen them too. “If they believe all is lost, they’ll likely desert Loxsbeare.”
“Is Monmouth dead?” Henry murmured, his head down.
Bayle closed his eyes briefly. “He left the battlefield. That is what I have been told.”
“He fled?” Hendry’s eyes rounded and Bayle shook him gently. “Stay strong, master. The stories are wild. No one knows the truth yet.”
Helena’s eyes filled with tears. “What about Father? And Uncle? Where’s Aaron?”
Her panic transferred itself to Henry, who gaped. “Will the King’s men come and arrest us?”
Bayle wrapped a protective arm around him. “I think not,” he whispered.
“Why not?” Helena snapped, scornful. “Everyone must know Father joined the rebels.”
“Hush!” Bayle flicked another glance at the servants. Their numbers had doubled and they stared back with no more expression than a flock of sheep.
“I don’t care!” she snapped. Appearances were the last thing on her mind. After today, the Woulfe name would be used in the same breath as traitor.
Not that it mattered, not to her. She wanted Father home again, to feel his laughter rolling in his chest as he held her against him, the scratch of his rough coat on her cheek and the smell of his skin in her senses.
“Mother was right.” Panic rose in her chest, but she couldn’t think, or even move. “We are all doomed!”
“Which is why you must leave here.” Bayle’s voice remained calm.
“That makes no sense.” Henry rubbed has face with a dirty hand. “If we are not to be arrested, why must we leave?”
“Because, Master,” Bayle said softly. “Condemned traitors forfeit their property to the Crown.”
“They will take Loxsbeare?” Helena gasped on an exhaled breath.
Hendry’s face paled and he groped for her arm.
Bayle’s face twisted in anguish. “They will expropriate everything Sir Jonathan owns.”
Grief vied with rage in Helena’s head. What value did their father’s high principals for the Anglican Church have, now they would be driven from their home? Where would they go, and how? Panic built up inside her until she wanted to scream. Her breathing quickened and just when she thought she might give way to her horror, she made a decision.
“I must go and find them.”
“Go where, Helena?” Henry asked, his mis
ery replaced by abject horror.
“To Bridgwater, or wherever the battle was.” She shrugged away from Bayle’s grip, lifted her skirts, and pounded towards the house, calling for her maid Chloe as she ran.
“A battlefield is no place for a gentlewoman,” Bayle said when he caught up with her on the upper landing.
“It’s not a battlefield any more is it?” Helena waved him away. “From what you said, everyone is dead or captured.” She was being unreasonable, and she knew it. She couldn’t spend another day waiting anxiously in the house for the worst to happen, while her mother grew more self-absorbed by the hour.
If she could find them, and bring them all back, perhaps it might rekindle some of the spirit which had deserted Mother these last weeks. With Aaron restored to her, she might forgive their father for taking him away from her in the first place.
Propelled by anger, she opened chests and drawers, hurling items of clothing onto the coverlet.
“You cannot go!” Henry followed her round the room. “You have no idea where they are!”
“I’ll find them.” Her oldest shifts and two plain, worn gowns joined the pile heaped on the bed. She glanced down at her muddy skirt where bits of straw still clung to it. At least she looked the part. “Chloe,” Helena addressed the confused maid who limped on her damaged leg into the chaos. “Fetch one of Father’s traveling bags.” When the girl hesitated, her snapped “This instant!” sent her back into the hall at a run.
Into the commotion strolled Betty Humbold, their housekeeper, a tall, gaunt woman with large bones. “What’s sent that lass Chloe running like demons was after her?” she demanded.
Bayle gave her a brief explanation, then issued instructions for provisions to several housemaids who crowded the hall. The girls repeated their orders to others in the hall, together with Helena’s name, their voices echoing through the house in a mixture of alarm and excitement.
The Rebel’s Daughter Page 4
