The Rebel’s Daughter

by Anita Seymour

  “Don’t stare,” Bayle warned, halting the cart beside an oak door that showed evidence of violent treatment - dents gouged in the wood at eye level, and splinters.

  In response to his knock, the door swung inward, revealing a diminutive woman in a brown dress, over which she wore a white apron; a housewife cap framed her face. Her eyes widened and wordlessly, she ushered them inside, casting a fearful look behind them before closing the door.

  “Nathan!” Her hand went to her throat and the years drained from her face, giving a glimpse of the lovely woman she had once been. “I had not thought to see you here, and at such a time.”

  The old stone built house had low ceilings and lime-washed walls with flat, mullioned windows, under a thatched roof. The ground floor consisted of two large adjoining rooms, with a narrow corridor leading into what Helena supposed were the rear offices. An aroma of wood-smoke and wildflowers overlaid by the tang of vinegar and heady beeswax, combined with a cloying, sickly smell she did not recognize.

  “Mistress Fellowes is my father’s youngest sister,” Bayle said, taking a settle by the fireplace, drawing Helena down beside him.

  “I thank you for your hospitality, Mistress.” Helena inclined her head.

  “So this is Mistress Woulfe?” Her intelligent eyes took in Helena’s face, before she turned to gaze lovingly at her nephew. “You shouldn’t have come, Nathan. These are dark days.”

  “I know, but we had little choice.” He threw Helena a meaningful look.

  On closer inspection, Helena saw that Jane Fellowes” delicate features with a trace of worry lines etched around her deep brown eyes were identical to Bayle’s.

  She disappeared through a door, returning with a female servant. Deferential but plainly anxious, the woman set down a tray of ale and small cakes before shuffling away.

  “I gather then, that Sir Jonathan joined the Duke’s men?” Mistress Fellows poured ale into pewter jugs and handed them out.

  Helena nodded, the sound of her father’s name on the lips of this kindly stranger eliciting instant tears.

  “Edmund Woulfe and Sir Jonathan’s son, Aaron are also amongst them.” Bayle took a sip of his drink. “What happened here, Aunt Jane?”

  “When Monmouth returned to Bridgwater last week, the Mayor begged him not to lay siege to the town, but he was hemmed in by Feversham, so he had little choice.”

  Bayle waved his jug at the window. “And here? I take it none of the rebels got this far?”

  Helena sipped the cool yeasty ale slowly as she listened, surprised at how delicious it tasted.

  Jane shook her head. She laid down her own jug of ale and folded her hands together, her eyes darkening in dismay.

  “When Lord Feversham arrived and set up camp, he billeted troopers in every house in the village.” Jane’s mouth twisted in recollection. “Talk in the village said he thought Monmouth was preparing to lay siege to Bridgwater. Whether they were waiting for reinforcements or just going to starve them out, we never knew.

  “How were you spared?” Bayle glanced around as if searching for signs of hostile occupation.

  “We weren’t. The three soldiers who were quartered here are dead. The rebels weren’t the only ones to die last night.” She gave a dismissive wave to signify that was another story. “Dragoons occupied the rectory and Weston Court, the manor close to here.” She nodded toward the front window. “They were so arrogant and sure of themselves. They spent their evenings drinking, and singing coarse songs. We have barely slept for days…” She broke off, as if embarrassed to mention this inconvenience in the midst of such tragedy.

  “Were you ever in danger, Aunt Jane?” Bayle asked.

  Helena studied the woman’s face. Jane, it suited her, simple but strong and handsome too.

  “Colonel Wyndham insisted the whole village pledge loyalty to King James. But that was nothing. Our guests,” she stumbled over the word, “showed us no disrespect, and we aren’t grand enough for the officers.” She gave a bitter laugh.

  “What about the battle?” Bayle consumed three tiny cakes in quick succession. Helena frowned and he grinned. “My aunt is a good cook.”

  “No one in Weston knew about the attack; not until we heard the gunfire in the middle of the night. All we could do was sit here and listen. It stopped soon after dawn and we watched them bring in the dead, and herd the prisoners into the church.”

  “How many are in there?” Bayle exchanged a look with Helena.

  “Hundreds.” Her voice rose in anguish. “I feel I betrayed those poor men. We offered to tend the wounded, Gil and I, out of Christian charity, but the officers said the rebels did not deserve help and their suffering was God’s judgment on them for their treachery against the King.”

  “Where is Gil?” Bayle asked.

  Helena assumed he referred to the lady’s husband.

  “At Langmoor Drove.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s helping cover the pit where they laid the dead.”

  “Kings men or rebels?” Helena spoke for the first time, her voice strangely calm, though her hands tightened on her jug of ale.

  “Rebels, my dear. About a hundred and seventy of them. Five Kings” men were given Christian burials yesterday at the church, but the men they captured…” She licked her lips. “Colonel Kirke complained to his superiors about the state of the graves. He ordered a gang of workmen build a mound over them.” She smoothed nervous hands down her skirt.

  “Kirke did not strike me as a humanitarian.” Bayle said, his voice bitter.

  “He is not.” His aunt’s eyes clouded. “The mass grave is a pitiful sight. They did not dig it deep enough and - well, the stench has already encouraged scavenging animals.”

  Helena made a choked sound and Jane pressed her hand. “I’m sorry, my dear. These are dreadful things to speak of, especially in front of you.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Mistress,” Helena said. She had not come this far to be treated like a genteel child who should be shielded from the truth. “There is no need to keep the facts from me.”

  Jane Fellows inclined her head, admiration in her eyes.

  “What is happening now?” Bayle plucked another cake from the plate, chewing thoughtfully.

  “Most of the soldiers have returned to Axbridge to collect their cannon and thence to London to report to the King.” She turned sad eyes on her nephew. “Lord Feversham took his men to Wells yesterday, and Churchill and his troops rampaged through Bridgwater, scaring the townsfolk. They found some poor wretches, but not so many as they hoped.” She blew her nose on her kerchief. “The Tangier regiment is staying to guard the prisoners and take them for trial at Taunton.” Her eyes flashed. “They are less than men, Nathan. Yesterday, without benefit of a trial, they hanged six rebels. One of them was Monmouth’s Dutch gunner, and a deserter from the Hampshire Militia. We’ve no idea who the others were.”

  “We saw some of them,” Helena mumbled. “I can still smell that sweet, fetid stench.” She halted at the look Jane exchanged with Bayle.

  “The smell is here all the time, my dear,” Jane Fellowes explained. “Those men in the church, their wounds are festering in the heat. They are what you can smell.”

  Helena went rigid with horror, her breathing quickened and she gulped her ale, hoping to remove the taste from her throat. It didn’t help.

  “They’re being taken to their home towns for trial,” Jane spoke again. “Either tonight, or in the morning. The parson says they’ll have to fumigate the building when they are gone. The churchwarden is already complaining about the expense to the parish.”

  Bayle rose to his feet and adjusted his hat. “I will see if I can find Gil. He might be able to help us get inside that church.”

  “Be careful,” Jane warned.

  Helena rose to her feet on wobbly legs. “I’m coming with you.”

  Bale held out a hand as if to restrain her. “It’s no place for a woman, Mistress Helena. Besides, the guards would never let you
in.”

  “They might.” Helena looked from Bayle to his aunt and back again, their aghast faces doing nothing to diminish her resolve.

  She didn’t need to ask why Bayle wanted to see inside the church. He was going to find out if her family were among the wounded. Well, she had come all this way for the purpose, and wasn’t going to be deterred now.

  “No place, Bayle?” She cocked her head. “How much worse can it be than what we saw in that tree on our way here?”

  Bayle sighed, glanced at his aunt and shrugged. “As you wish.” Without waiting to see if she followed, he ducked beneath the lintel and through the door.

  Chapter 7

  The soldier who kept watch at the door of St Mary’s church barred their way with an upheld musket. “What do you want?” he snarled, raking each of them with a withering glare.

  “I’m Gill Fellowes’s nephew,” Bayle said. “The churchwarden said my uncle was here.”

  Helena held her breath. They had not seen anyone on the short walk across the green, much less a churchwarden. She focused on the musket the fellow held loosely at his shoulder; but he made no threatening moves.

  “He was here an hour or so ago. I dunno if he’s still inside.” He glanced down at his forearm, a grubby bandage visible beneath a ragged tear in his sleeve. “Master Fellowes bound this fer me. The pain is almost gone, thanks to “im.”

  “I’m so glad,” Bayle sounded anything but. “We brought water for the prisoners.” He indicated the bucket in his hand.

  “Both of ya?” The soldier frowned at Helena. “Won’t be much fun fer 'er.”

  “This is my sister. She’ll be fine if she stays with me and does as she’s told.” Bayle’s glare held all the instruction Helena needed.

  “Aye. Well, I has orders not to let anyone in.”

  Helena held her breath. He must let them in. This was the only way of finding out for sure if any of her family were inside.

  “Perhaps you won’t see us.” Bayle kept his face bland.

  “Them poor wretches haven’t had any water all day.” He licked his lips, his gaze darting nervously over his shoulder. “I need the privy, I’ll be gone a while.” He gave them a curt nod and left them standing in the empty porch.

  The nauseating stench of unwashed bodies, blood, and decaying flesh assailed Helena’s senses like brume as they entered the airless building. She fumbled in a pocket for a kerchief and held it to her face, willing herself not to be sick. All Jane’s warnings had not been enough to prepare her for this.

  St Mary’s was not a small church; it had a high timbered roof and stone arches that ran down both sided of the central aisle. The pews had been shoved aside to make room for the prisoners, who sat or lounged on the dusty flagstones. Sunlight streamed through the arched windows, sending beams of white light onto piles of rags that covered the floor – rags that moved. A short, burly man with sandy hair approached them, his hands filled with soiled strips of cloth he must have been using as bandages. He frowned at Helena as he drew closer, but on seeing Bayle, his face cleared. “Nathan? Is that you?”

  Bayle set down the bucket and the newcomer discarded his own burden so they could clasp hands. “I’m surprised to see you in this place, boy.”

  Boy! Helena frowned at Bayle, who had always been an adult to her. Brief introductions followed, during which Helena ignored Gil Fellowes’s disapproving looks as Bayle explained their purpose.

  She imagined Bayle would most likely receive a lecture from his Uncle Gil later.

  “There are so many,” Helena whispered, easing along the wall. “Not all of them are wounded, surely?” Some sported open wounds she tried not to see, while others appeared unharmed, though every face showed signs of exhaustion, or despair, while some were mud-covered. “About seventy out of the five hundred,” Gil whispered. “Though they all look done in.”

  Dull, uncaring eyes sharpened with urgency when Bayle offered them water. The fittest slurped greedily, and once fortified, handed round the ladles to others, helping prop up the heads of the more badly injured who needed assistance.

  “We’ll need more water,” Bayle said when they were still only about ten feet inside the door.

  “There’s a pump out back,” Gil said. “The guard there owes me; so I’ll fetch some.”

  “Perhaps you should go, Helena?” Bayle held out the bucket.

  “Keep going. I haven’t found anything yet, and that other soldier will be back soon.”

  Gil exchanged an astonished look with Bayle, who shrugged. Helena would have liked to have gone with him, but forced herself to remain inside the stifling church, though none of the men took any notice of her as she picked her way through patches of floor space, searching for familiar features. Hair of a certain colour, or a boot she had seen before.

  Helena edged round a stone pillar, where a huddle of men lay between the altar and the back wall. Helena crept closer, her skirt hitched away from blood-soaked bodies and a pool of vomit on the floor, peering into dirty faces and unfocussed eyes. A sudden jolt went through her as her gaze locked with a young face, one side caked with blood from a head-wound. He lay on his back staring at the ceiling with glazed, unseeing eyes.

  “You know him?” Gil asked, moving to her side.

  “Yes.” Helena released a long breath, guilty at the rush of relief that had flooded through her.

  “It’s Parry, the stable lad.” Bayle dipped a cup into the bucket and brought it to the boy’s dry lips, but he had no strength to swallow, and the water dribbled down the side of his face.

  “He’s barely conscious,” Gil whispered.

  “What can we do?” Helena swallowed. Parry was barely sixteen, little older than Henry. He looked so out of place here, filthy and battered. So unlike the cheerful lad who drew Bayle’s wrath for whistling in the yard.

  “Nothing. He’ll not last another night.” Bayle straightened and approached a prone form that lay a few feet away. An older man lay on his side, one arm flung over his head. He wore a brown plush coat with a row of silver buttons that caught her eyes as Bayle rolled him onto his back.

  Helena’s gaze shifted to his face and she froze.

  A roaring began inside her head and her breath caught in her throat as he stared down at a familiar face now devoid of animation and life. “Who is he?” Gil asked, his voice flat.

  “Was,” Bayle emphasized. “He was Edmund Woulfe.”

  Gil bent and moved the stained cravat to one side. “Slashed across the neck,” he murmured. “Must have bled heavily on the field, for there is little blood here apart from what is on his clothes. Had he died there they would have left him.”

  Helena couldn’t move, her welling tears threatening to choke her when Bayle’s hand came down on her shoulder in silent comfort.

  Gil held out a cup of water to an uninjured man leaning against a stone pillar, watching them.

  “Almost dead when they brought “im in,” the man whispered through parched lips as he reached for the cup trembling hands. “Never woke up.”

  At a signal from Bayle, Gil lifted Edmund’s body into his arms as if it weighed no more than a child, and headed toward an arched doorway off to one side of the church.

  Numb with shock, Helena followed behind into a small lobby that held two doors.

  Gil pushed through the one on the left with an elbow, his burden not slowing him down at all, only to be brought up short.

  Helena looked over his shoulder to where a man sat at a table in the middle of the room, the remains of a scratch meal in front of him - a half-eaten heel of cheese, some coarse bread, and a jug of ale.

  The three regarded each other in pregnant silence as the man at the table rose slowly to his feet. He wore a long cassock and Helena noticed that his hands were white and soft. A cleric.

  At Bayle’s questioning look Gil muttered, “Churchwarden.”

  “Master Fellowes.” The Churchwarden’s gaze flicked to the body in Gils arms. “Are you mad, Gil? You’re riski
ng arrest for all of us!”

  “We must hide this man.” Gils voice held no trace of either urgency or fear.

  The Churchwarden cast a swift glance toward the window, and then seemed to make up his mind. “This way.” He took them through an even lower arch where a flight of stone stairs dropped away into blackness. “The crypt. No one will think to look there.”

  “I’m grateful,” Helena whispered as she passed him, though he avoided her eye.

  At the last second the churchwarden looked into the face of Edmund Woulfe. He gave a shocked gasp and took a step back that brought him up against the wall. “He’s dead!”

  “He’s my Uncle.” Helena jutted her chin close to the cleric’s face. “I’ll not leave him here to be consigned to a death pit. I’m taking him home.”

  The churchwarden cast a terrified look at the door, then back at the two men. “T-transporting a body through the roadblocks won’t be easy.” He twisted his hands in front of him.

  “Leave us to worry about that.” Bayle impaled him with an unyielding stare. The churchwarden looked away. His shoulders slumped and pushing past them back into the church, he left them to their task.

  Helena doubted he would finish his bread and cheese.

  * * *

  Their slow walk back across the village green enabled Helena to study Gil properly. Shorter than Bayle, strong and stocky like many West Country men, he had a kind, open face.

  Once back at the house, Jane sent the maid to fetch them a cooling drink, those first minutes spent on introductions and polite enquiries, like ordinary visitors making a call on a summer day.

  Helena squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to banish all the horrible things she had seen in that church, first and foremost her Uncle Edmund, lying so still and broken on the flagstones.

  In the crypt they laid him on a bench, covering his face with a sack. Helena had wanted to sit with him awhile, but Bayle wouldn’t let her, and insisted she came back with him to the house.

  When she opened her eyes again, Jane was looking at her. She bowed her head, mortified. Why did her feelings always show so clearly on her face? Had Mistress Fellowes seen it too? Her mother always said she must learn more…what was the word? Composure.