“They’ve gone to find Father and the others,” Henry said, his voice flat.
“I see.” Samuel pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “Well, Bayle knows the plan, so when they return,” he paused, the word if hanging in the air between them, “he knows where to come.”
A shadow passed the window. There was the sound of multiple cartwheels rumbling into the courtyard.
“Ah. My men are here.” Samuel hauled on the front door and addressed someone Henry couldn’t see. “When the carts are loaded, cover them and conceal them in the stables. Don’t leave them in the yard, as they would be seen from the road.” With a curt nod to Henry he bounded down the front steps.
“Master Ffoyle, what about Helena?” Henry called after him.
Samuel halted at the bottom and turned back. “Pray for her.”
His mother recoiled with a sharp cry, then hurried away into the house, calling frantically for Betty and Ruth.
Henry found himself alone in the hall, unsure of what to do next. He had taken an oath to take care of Loxsbeare and his mother, and yet they were about to abandon their home. Would his father ever forgive him?
As he stood there arguing with himself, two servants emerged from the stewards room, struggling with a heavy oak chest they manhandled out of the front door. Samuel followed behind, his arms laden with ledgers and two gold candlesticks. The estate accounts were almost as valuable as the contents of the chest.
Hendry’s stomach knotted again. The Woulfes were really leaving Loxsbeare. For how long? Until the panic had died down - or forever?
A maid came running into the hall, only to halt in front of him when she caught sight of his face.
He straightened and brushed past her, taking the stairs two at a time.
* * *
At a small village called Staplegrove, Bayle stopped to buy small beer and allow the horses some rest. There, as in every village they passed through since entering Somerset, news of Monmouth’s defeat was on everyone’s lips. Small groups of villagers huddled round the public pump and crowded the inn, repeating what they had heard to anyone who would listen.
Helena climbed down to stretch her legs, while Bayle removed wheat stalks entangled in the cartwheels. Some locals struck up a conversation with him.
Others, less eager to talk, tried to ascertain whether they were strangers who might either threaten their existence, or bring more news. Once Bayle had convinced them that he and Helena were of the second category, they clustered around him to demand what they knew.
“Troopers 'ave been through “ere already today.” An elderly man with wrinkled, sunbaked skin told them.
“Where’s the patrol now?” Bayle asked.
“They took off through those fields over there, after a couple o' poor wretches on t ‘other side of that wall.” He pointed a dirty finger down Fore Street, back where they had come. “But I don’t think they woz rebels. they had 'orses with 'em.”
Thanking him, Bayle jerked his chin at Helena, who scrambled reluctantly back into the cart. Her back was stiff from being bumped against the unyielding wooden seat. Her jaw was so sore, she could swear her teeth had worked themselves loose. “Are all Somerset roads so narrow and bumpy?”
Bayle gave a wry smile. “I’m afraid so.”
Helena kept further complaints to herself as they passed through villages with names like Cheddon Fitzpane, West Monkton, Adsborough and Thurloxton; a route with which Bayle appeared familiar, since he did not stop to ask for directions.
Helena scanned the fields with narrowed eyes, half expecting to see ragged and blood-splattered figures crawling through the undergrowth, or peering out from behind trees.
She saw no one.
The landscape remained quiet and still, the empty fields basking in the afterglow of the early evening. When hunger intruded, she picked at her package of bread and sliced meat, handing morsels to Bayle.
Daylight faded into a pink and yellow evening. The road ahead was a wide, flat plain with empty fields on either side; a few low trees scattered in the distance.
The sun sank behind the horizon, and the temperature dropped swiftly.
She was about to ask if they would spend the entire night traveling, when a cluster of buildings materialised out of the gloom on the road ahead.
A squat church with a thin spire rose behind a row of houses. A range of hills shrouded in mist rose in the distance. But the village, if that’s what it was, contained little else.
The rumbling cart entered a deserted main street. Bayle pulled to a halt below a sign that sported a white bird in flight, the bottom half obscured by dirt and grime.
An upper storey overhung the ground floor in which small, square windows with bottle glass panes and deep sills dotted the façade at various heights. Soft yellow light streamed out of the lower windows onto the road, while the sounds of chattering voices within mingled with the clatter of pots and plates.
“Where are we?” Helena whispered, her hunger awoken by enticing cooking smells that hung in the air.
“Weston is about five miles on the other side of that marshland.” Bayle pointed toward flatlands outlined by clumps of trees. “We’ll stay here tonight. There’ll be soldiers all over the roads into Bridgwater by tomorrow.”
“Would they bother with us, do you think?”
“Whatever their intentions, we are at their mercy. Remember not to show any interest in the rebels. Churchill’s men will be well-organized after the initial chaos of today, and every soldier in the county will be searching for fugitives.”
“Do you regret coming with me?” she asked, hauling her pain-filled body onto the road.
“We’re here now,” he said, without looking at her. “By tomorrow or the next day, pray God, we may be home again, but I fear the countryside has seen nothing of the King James’s vengeance yet.”
* * *
Astride a hay bale inside the stable door, Henry stretched his arms above his head and tried not to groan as his muscles protested.
The third cart had left a half hour before, and with the last one almost ready to go, he had taken an opportunity in a lull in the activity to take a rest.
Two grooms idled outside in the courtyard, pitching horseshoes at a stake in the ground, an occasional clang the only sound above intermittent birdsong.
By midafternoon, three carts and four horses from the Loxsbeare stables had left for Ideswell, although their hard labour appeared to have made little impression on the contents of the manor. Henry had never worked so hard in his life; who thought piles of clothes and pewter plates could be so heavy?
He had enjoyed the sense of purpose the task gave him. He didn’t even mind when Samuel stepped in to call a halt because he had allowed the servants to stack the goods too high.
“Not only would it slow the horses down,” he explained, “but they are too obviously the possessions of a wealthy family in flight, and bound to attract attention.”
The stable door was flung wide, and Samuel strode inside. “No long now, Henry.”
Henry jerked awake from his light snooze, unwilling to let Master Ffoyle think he was slacking. He liked the Guild Master of Clothworkers, a man who had always been kind to him. As a child, while his older brother practiced swordsmanship on the Weare Cliffs behind the house, Henry had begged to accompany his father and Master Ffoyle into Exeter.
When Henry grew bored with merchants” talk in the Customs House, or the pipe smoke in the Bishops Blaize inn irritated his chest, Samuel always came to his rescue. He would take him to Tuckers Hall to gossip with the wool men, or among the drying racks in the Crulditch outside the city walls, where the lengths of serge were hung to dry. He always thought they looked like sails flapping in the wind. With a pang of sadness, Henry wondered if he would ever spend days like that again.
A shadow blocked the entrance and Henry looked up, startled. It was only the groom, Benjamin.
Samuel rolled his eyes and Henry gave a nervous laugh as the man sid
led through the doorway and paused, his hands in his pockets, morosely silent.
Benjamin had elected to remain behind at Loxsbeare, whether from cowardice or loyalty, Henry could not decide. While everyone else worked to clear the house, the groom had been neither help nor a hindrance. He was little more than an irritant, so Samuel had sent him to keep watch for approaching soldiers.
“Well?” Samuel demanded, his brow furrowed.
“Dragoons,” Benjamin muttered under his breath. “Man on an 'orse passed by, said they came up Shepcote Hill s’morning,” the sullen groom mumbled.
“Where are they at this moment, man? Never mind this morning?” Samuel cuffed him round the head in frustration.
“Prob'ly near North Gate b'now,” Benjamin staggered and rubbed his ear.
“God’s Blood!” Samuel ran outside with Henry at his heels.
“You!” Samuel turned back to point at the indolent groom, then changed his mind, and called to another boy instead, “No, you, man. Move this cart into the rear stable out of sight.” Samuel yelled, not stopping to see if the man obeyed.
“Will they search the house?” Henry cast a fearful look at the upper windows, just as Lumm came running from the rear. “I’ve just heard troopers are on their way up St David’s Hill, Samuel. How much time do we have?”
“I’ve no idea,” Samuel called back. “It’s too soon for the trained bands to begin systematic searches. We’ll have to bluff it out and hope they don’t look too closely.”
Nodding, Lumm leaned his weight into the shoulder of a stocky pony, in an attempt to force the animal to budge.
Indecision left Henry stranded in the middle of the courtyard while grooms, kitchen maids and footmen rushed between the house and the outbuildings, their arms full.
“Churchill’s men won’t have got this far west so soon.” Lumm leaned his shoulder further into the reluctant animal’s side. “Like as not, they’ll be militia patrols. Surly, tough men, but none too bright.”
Hendry’s first instinct was to run back into the stable and hide in the hay-loft, but rejected the idea as cowardly. He had no idea where his mother was, or even if she knew the soldiers were on their way. Would she hide or face the soldiers?
The clink of bridles and the rhythmic pounding of hooves told Henry he had left his decision too late. The soldiers were here.
* * *
“Welcome to The Dove.” The barrel-chested landlord greeted Helena and Bayle at the entrance, before leading them through a low-ceilinged hall, its uneven walls covered with mottled yellow lime-wash.
A narrow, uneven staircase stood at one end, curving to the upper storey like a series of elbows at odd angles.
Bayle negotiated their accommodation while Helena stood fidgeting under the suspicious stare of the landlord’s wife, a brown-faced woman with mousey hair peeking out from under a grubby white cap.
“Do they have rooms for us?” she asked, when Bayle rejoined her.
“For you, certainly.” He guided her to a table in the corner of the room, amongst a motley collection of tradesmen and merchants. “The one he offered me is at the front.” He kept his voice so low, she had to bend forward to hear him. “I cannot see the horses from there, so I’ll sleep in the stable. We don’t want anyone depriving us of them in the night.”
They had arrived too late to avail themselves of the evening meal; instead they were served a supper of soup, sliced ham and potatoes fried in bacon fat, coarse bread and strong ale. The food was hot and appetizing; the soup reminiscent of a meaty stew and the bread was still warm.
“Are you sure about spending the night in the stable?” Helena asked, her voice reduced to a croak by the smoke from tallow and lard candles on the table in front of them.
“I’ll be happier there.” Bayle spooned food hungrily into his mouth. “The hay there will probably be fresher than the mattress you’ll be sleeping on.” He glanced over his shoulder at a florid man with stained teeth who appeared to be holding court.
“I can guess what he’s talking about.” Bayle tore a chunk of bread off a loaf and chewed. “Everyone I’ve spoken to claims to have seen king’s men rounding up rebels.”
“Did you believe them?” Helena nibbled the heavy bread, picturing her mother and Henry at home in the dining hall eating roast leg of lamb and potatoes. Then she remembered. They will have left Loxsbeare by now.
The man kicked his stool aside and advanced toward their table.
“He’s coming over,” Helena gasped, ducking her head to avoid his gaze.
“Heard about them rebels have ye”?” He rolled his eyes toward the front windows. “They’re being hanged by the roadside wherever they’re caught. The royal army has run out of wood to build the scaffolds.” He wiped a dirty hand across his dirtier mouth and fixed Bayle with a penetrating gaze through bloodshot eyes.
“Can’t a body eat his dinner in peace!” Bayle swung his head in the stranger’s direction and made what Helena deduced was an obscene gesture with one arm. “I’ve been on the road all day with a whining lass. I don’t need you prattling on about rebels who should have known better.”
The man backed away rapidly, muttering to himself.
When she was sure they weren’t being observed, Helena widened her eyes, and mouthed Whining lass?
Bayle’s lop-sided grin appeared but instead of a response, he speared a chunk of bacon with his knife and popped it into his mouth, masticating noisily.
They finished the rest of their meal in peace. Then a maid in a food-stained apron escorted Helena to her room under the eaves, with a crooked door that hung askew from the frame.
The bed bore thin, rough sheets and a coarse blanket; set lower to the floor than Helena was used to, bringing images of scurrying rats to mind. At least the bed looked clean.
Helena peeled the bodice of her gown away from her itching skin, letting the skirt fall to the floor. She was more weary than she could ever remember; and yet proud of how far she and Bayle had come since morning. Dressed in only her shift, she crossed to the low window where grimy, diamond-paned glass at waist level gave onto the road.
She leaned her hands on the cracked sill and squinted at the shadowy outline of Bridgwater off to her left. The smell of grass and wildflowers drifted on the air, combined with the sharp tang of the stable. She thought of Bayle, bedded down amongst the hay, hoping he would not be too uncomfortable sharing it with the horses.
Her smile faded. Where was Father sleeping tonight? Beneath a hedgerow somewhere, or in the Taunton gaol house? That he may even lay dead on the battlefield was also a possibility. The thought made her shiver, though the night was warm. And where were Aaron, and Edmund? Were they together, running from the troopers? Or had they split up and taken off across the countryside alone, and could they be on their way home at that very moment?
The image of them as chained prisoners was something she didn’t want to contemplate. She pushed the notion into the back of her mind. The man downstairs had said captured rebels were being hanged on the roadsides.
Helena scanned the horizon, where a cloud of dust grew larger, then separated into riders, approaching from the direction of Bridgwater.
The soldiers sat their mounts with an arrogant air, leaning over their saddles to stare into windows, and scattering the villagers, who ran ahead into houses and slammed shut their doors.
Helena stepped back, her back pressed against the wall, her breath held until she heard the thump of her own heartbeat.
Loud voices called from the landing outside her room, followed by the slamming of doors from the floor below. Shouts and the sound of running feet on wooden boards reverberated through the building.
What should she do? Run and fetch Bayle, or stay where she was?
The seconds stretched and the sound changed pitch, then receded until she could hear nothing at all. She exhaled slowly, dizzy with relief. She crept back to the window and saw they had ridden past.
Weak with relief, she climbed int
o the creaky bed. Despite her exhaustion, she lay awake for what seemed like hours, until the tiny patch of sky beyond the window darkened to black.
As she teetered on the edge of consciousness at last, her father’s face swam into her mind, seeming so real, she mumbled into her lumpy pillow, Stay alive until I get there, Father.
Chapter 6
Henry peered round the stable door as the patrol of twelve soldiers cantered double file through Loxsbeare's gates, their hooves clattering to a halt on the cobbles.
The officer’s glare raked the empty courtyard, fixing on Samuel who strolled forward, a puzzled frown on his face, as if their appearance were a mystery.
The officer dismounted, while Samuel drew himself up to his considerable height, and returned his arrogant stare.
Henry sensed Tobias” presence behind him, and whispered, “Master Ffoyle is not easily intimidated, is he?”
“Nay, Henry. Let’s hope they believe his story.”
Henry was about to ask what story, when a black-coated figure dismounted beside the officer. Henry glowered at the sight of the Magistrate who had tried to waylay them outside the church three Sundays ago.
“What can I do for you, Master Prendergast?” Samuel said, his voice carrying across the yard. He folded his hands in front of him, a half-smile of enquiry on his face.
“I apologize for our unannounced presence, Master Ffoyle.” The magistrate avoided Samuel’s gaze, as if he were reluctant to be there. “This officer has business with Sir Jonathan Woulfe.”
A grimace of distaste passed across the officer’s face, one already marred by a livid scar that ran from beneath his right eye to the corner of his mouth. “I have orders here for the arrest of Sir Jonathan Woulfe.” His voice a snarl as he withdrew a parchment from his coat. “On the charge of treason against His Majesty King James the Second, and the seizure of all his goods and property.”
The Rebel’s Daughter Page 6
