The Rebel’s Daughter

by Anita Seymour

  Bayle gave a muttered curse, then flipped the cover back into place, painstakingly securing the sides. He then helped her back onto her seat and climbed in beside her.

  “Let’s get Master Edmund home and give him a proper burial,” Helena nodded, her bottom lip gripped between her teeth.

  Alert for the sound of pounding hooves, she kept a careful eye on the horizon, holding fast to the seat as the cart bumped over ruts recently dried out after days of heavy rain.

  When they had gone another mile, the tremor in Helena’s hands turned to uncontrollable shaking, as she could not get the image of the dead soldier’s battered skull out of her head.

  “We-we killed two men, Bayle.”

  He flicked the reins against the flank of the nearest horse, his gaze straight ahead. “Forget them, and tell no one what happened today. Ever.”

  * * *

  Helena awoke nestled between clean sheets in a bedroom she didn’t recognize. Bleary-eyed from sleep, she pushed aside the coverlet and stumbled across bare floorboards to the window, from where she could see undulating green fields lying beneath the early morning heat-haze.

  A scattering of sheep grazed on a hillside, where the figures of field workers were framed against a clear blue sky.

  She wrinkled her brow in an effort to think. Reality returned, and with a groan, she turned away. Last night she and Bayle had come home, but not to her home; not Loxsbeare.

  Tears stung her eyes. Would she ever live there again? She had left for Somerset days before with a determination to find her family; battered and weary perhaps, but whole and alive. To have returned with a corpse and no news of either her father or brother was an ignominious defeat.

  Harsh realism she felt ill-equipped to handle had thrust away her innocent and happy childhood. How she longed for her mother’s smile, and Hendry’s laughter; but would anything be the same after what she had seen?

  It was very late when they arrived, and the household had retired for the night. Exhausted, Bayle had steadied himself against the cart, one fist pressed to the small of his back. Close to collapse herself, Helena berated herself for drawing him into her misguided folly. Would he forgive her impetuosity someday? Or had he done so already?

  She offered neither resistance nor co-operation as Meghan, roused from her bed and still sleepy, had peeled away Helena’s dirt-caked gown.

  Born in the damp hills of Wales, Meghan Ffoyle was the same age as Helena’s mother, but looked older. Her broad cheekbones and near-black eyes betrayed her foreign origins. When the solitary bachelor Samuel Ffoyle visited Caernarvon in search of Welsh sheep for his farm more than twenty years before, he had surprised everyone by bringing more than thirty healthy ewes back to Devon with him.

  Clad in her grubby linen shift, a garment Helena resolved to burn at the first opportunity, she had collapsed onto the bed where sleep instantly claimed her.

  The room, with its low ceilings with black oak beams and sparkling white walls seemed too large for one person. A massive four-poster oak bed stood at one end, and there was a dresser polished to a rich glow on the other side of the room.

  With a start of surprise, she spotted some of her own belongings. A wooden chest that had once occupied her own chamber sat beneath the window. Her prayer book and tortoiseshell combs lay on a table by the bed, beside a familiar carved wooden box containing her unimpressive collection of jewels.

  With a sudden urgency, Helena rummaged through the chest. Her search came up empty. She tried the smaller box next, expelling a sigh of relief when her hands closed on her brown leather book. Henry had kept his promise, and her journal was safe.

  She bit her lip, frowning. Mother must have left Loxsbeare in a hurry, even with all their things here. Is this where they were to stay, at the Ffoyles’? And if so, for how long?

  The sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor sent Helena flying in search of something to wear over her shift. Before she could locate any of her clothes, the door swung inwards with a sharp click; it was Susannah, Samuel and Meghan’s eldest daughter. She carried a pitcher from which rose wisps of steam, and one of Helena’s own gowns draped over one arm. Susannah’s looks were similar to her father’s; tall and spare, with an oval face and high cheekbones, her nut-brown eyes identical to all the Ffoyle children. She was nineteen years old.

  “Good morrow Helena,” she greeted her shyly, closing the door with a swift backward kick.

  “And to you,” Helena murmured, unsure of what was expected of her. Should she ask all the questions circling in her head, or wait? Deciding on practicalities first, Helena discarded the gritty shift that chafed her skin, and washed luxuriously in the hot water.

  Susannah also shared her father’s tact, for apart from asking Helena if she slept well, she made no mention of how she had passed the previous two days.

  “I shall never take cleanliness for granted again.” Helena’s voice was muffled by folds of the gown Susannah pulled over her head. “I was so tired last night, I could barely stand. Is my mother awake yet?”

  Susannah’s hands stilled on the fastenings, but she did not reply.

  Helena smoothed the gown over her hips, adjusting the bodice, frowning. “Susannah?”

  “Master Henry is here.” Susannah avoided her eyes as she collected pitchers and discarded linens. “Your maid, too.”

  “Chloe?” Helena gasped in surprise. “Why did she not come and help me dress?”

  Susannah turned for the door, her back stiff. “I will send Father to you.” Before Helena could question her further, she hurried out.

  Puzzled, Helena sat on the bed, listening with growing unease to a murmur of voices in the corridor outside. The words were indistinct, but the timbre indicated there was something wrong. When Samuel finally appeared, Helena jerked to her feet, though her greeting froze on her lips at the sight of his distraught face.

  “How are you this morning, my dear?” He strode to the window and then the fireplace where he ran a hand along the mantel, but after that first swift glance when he entered, he avoided her eyes.

  A flutter of dread opened like wings in her stomach, threatened to fly into her throat and choke her. “I-I am well, Master Ffoyle. I must thank you for allowing us to seek refuge in your home. Mother and I are-” she broke off when he flinched.

  “There’s something, I have to tell you.” He coughed into a fist, opened his mouth and then shut it again.

  Helena waited. The silenced stretched between them, until her fear overcame her good manners. “Master Ffoyle, I beg you, tell me what has happened. Apart from us being thrown out of our own home I mean.” Her harsh laugh fell flat in the face of his deadpan expression.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Lady Elizabeth…your mother…is dead.”

  “What are you saying?”

  What cruel trick was this? It couldn’t be true; Mother had been alive only three days before. Bayle said the plan was to go to Ideswell, so she would be safe. How could she be dead?

  He made no attempt to reassure her, but merely stared at the floor.

  Incensed, Helena flew at him, clutching at his coat. Anger gave her strength and she hauled on the heavy serge and gave him a firm shake that made his eyes widen in shock. “How could you have let such a thing happen?”

  Samuel’s large hands closed on her upper arms and held her still, his gaze holding hers. “I cannot tell you how distressed I am.”

  “How can she be dead?” Helena’s hands slid down his lapels and she kept repeating the words in her head. How can she be dead?

  “Soldiers came and seized Loxsbeare,” Samuel said, his voice, calm. “Trained bands, I imagine. They were an unruly bunch.” His reasonable tone started to grate, though his eyes pleaded for understanding. “There was a scuffle. Your mother - she fell.”

  You were there?” She dropped her hands from his coat and backed away when he nodded.

  Blindly she clutched the bedpost to keep from crumpling to the floor; her gri
p so hard, the carvings cut into her hand, though the pain kept her from fainting, while Samuel’s voice came to her as if from far away.

  Her mind could barely take in what he was saying, though when he recounted the part about her mother’s sapphire necklace, she thumped a clenched fist against the bedrail. “Why didn’t you do something? Where were Lumm, and Henry?” A dreadful thought slammed into her. “Dear God, Henry! Where is he? Did the soldiers hurt him? Is he alive?”

  “Henry is distraught, but he is quite well. He is here, waiting to see you.”

  Relief surged in her chest to hear her brother was alive, only to be replaced by a red mist that appeared before her eyes. “Father did this to us,” she spat. “He left us all alone at the militia’s mercy, and for what?” She paced the room, ignoring the pounding in her temples. “Uncle Edmund too; with his obsessive hatred of Catholics. Aaron blindly followed Monmouth’s men simply to impress Father.” All her pent-up emotions of the last few days flooded out until, spent, she sank down on the bed. “And now Mother has been taken from me too.”

  Samuel reached for her arm to help her stand up. “They had to follow their consciences, my dear. Your father truly believed he was doing right.”

  She recoiled from his touch. “I care nothing for who rules the country! Kings, bishops or cloth workers, it doesn’t matter. I want my home, and my life back as it was.”

  Meghan appeared at the doorway, her handsome face dulled by pity. She touched Samuel’s shoulder and mouthed something Helena didn’t hear. He nodded and with his head down, retreated from the room.

  Helena curled herself into the covers on the unmade bed, her knees drawn into her chest, the coverlet gripped beneath her chin. “It was because I didn’t bring Aaron back,” she whispered. “Mother’s dead, because I couldn’t do the one thing she wanted. And now I never can.”

  Her eyes burned, her face becoming sticky from tears and mucus as she wailed like a child. “She could have waited for me,” she cried, knowing her words made no sense.

  Her storm of emotion abated slowly, while Meghan’s strong arms massaged her shoulders and stroked her hair, whispering endearments that leached through Helena’s skin and into her heart.

  Helena she was too exhausted to cry any more, and her sobs turned to hiccoughing and moans. Susannah appeared, a bowl and damp linen cloth in hand. She sat on the side of the bed, and bathed Helena’s face, alleviating the heat and removing the stickiness from her skin. At last, Helena she grew calmer, and pulled away from Susannah’s touch, avoiding Meghan’s knowing gaze. “Where is Henry? I want to see Henry.”

  Her brother must have been waiting outside in the hall, for as the women withdrew, Henry dashed past them, halting self-consciously in front of her. He looked so young, in a pair of too-large breeches he must have borrowed from one of the Ffoyle boys, his hair all tangled and his eyes red from crying. He held his hands away from his sides, and then dropped them again in a gesture of helplessness, his bottom lip quivering.

  Helena opened her arms and he threw himself into her embrace.

  “I would have killed him had I a weapon,” he said between muffled gasps, his chin pressed into her shoulder. “Samuel would have too, but Lumm said the men would have shot us.” He pulled back an arm’s length and stared into her eyes. “Ellie, Mama did not even have the Passing Bell.”

  “I know.” She nodded, her hands sliding to either side of his face, her gaze shifting to the bandage wrapped round his forehead. “You’re injured?”

  “It doesn’t hurt much anymore.”

  “I shouldn’t have left her.” Helena gently stroked the white cloth round his head. “I shouldn’t have left you.”

  He straightened, his hands grasped her shoulders so tightly, she winced; his gaze locked with hers, no longer distraught, but determined. “I couldn’t save Mother, any more than you could have saved Uncle Ned.”

  “Oh Henry, I didn’t mean…it’s just…” Weariness and misery overcame her. She would have been every bit as helpless when the soldiers came. Henry was no more responsible than Samuel, or Tobias. The troopers killed Mother, despite Samuel’s insistence that it was an accident.

  She wrapped both arms round him. “I must go and apologize to Master Ffoyle.”

  “He’ll understand.” Henry blew his nose nosily on the kerchief she handed him. “Those troopers could have killed me, you know, had Samuel not been there.”

  “I realize that.” Shame heated her face as she recalled her outburst earlier. “Let’s go and find him.”

  Chapter 9

  Daylight faded as the Ffoyle carriage rolled through Exeter city’s the West Gate and up Fore Street. Turning left at the top, they rolled into Mary Arches Lane, halting outside the church. The windows of the square tower glowered above them like blackened eyes.

  Helena climbed down from the carriage and approached the door, her hand clasped firmly in Hendry’s.

  Somehow, the news had spread, and the road outside was lined with curious onlookers, some of whom Helena recognised. Her gaze flicked over their faces; the Blandens were not there. Before they reached the church door, a clutter of hooves thundered into the street, and all eyes turned to stare at a troop of soldiers who halted in the road.

  Helena fought to calm her rapid breathing, but the Troopers did not dismount, watching with surly expressions as the party milled around the parvis.

  “I don’t recognise any of them,” Henry whispered. “They weren’t the ones who came to the house.”

  Helena narrowed her eyes. “Let them do as they please, they cannot hurt us anymore.” She shoved Henry before her through the church door, where the musty air made Helena cough, the sound echoing into the cavernous roof.

  The tiny congregation consisted of Samuel and Meghan, with their four eldest children, as well as Henry, Lumm and Nathan Bayle, all seated in the front pews of the nearly empty church.

  Helena’s confident tone of earlier had been sheer bravado. She spent the ceremony darting furtive glances at the door, half-expecting the soldiers to burst in and stop the proceedings.

  Master Triske appeared equally unsettled, as he hastened through the service, not once saying her Uncle’s name aloud. He referred to him only as “our brother”.

  It struck Helena as a sad thing to be committed to one’s grave without a name. Her gaze remained fixed on the two coffins that lay side by side on makeshift biers in front of the altar. How was it possible that her dynamic uncle and her tall, beautiful mother be contained in such small wooden boxes?

  Six slow tolls of the Passing Bell sounded, to signify the death of a woman, followed by one ring for each year of her age. Edmund Woulfe went to his final rest in silence.

  “Mother has had the Passing Bell, Henry,” Helena whispered to the silent figure at her side.

  He nodded, his gaze fixed on the floor, and at intervals swiped a hand across his eyes.

  When the service ended, the churchwarden helped Bayle, Samuel and the elder Ffoyle boys carry the coffins inside the vault below the altar. When they emerged, the iron door clanged shut, the hollow sound resonating in Helena’s head. She stumbled from the gloomy building into the summer night, blinking back tears.

  Master Triske caught up with her outside the church, his face a grey blur in the low light. “I trust you won’t neglect your devotions, my dear. It is times such as these, that your faith is tested. Even in your sorrow, you must not fail your Savior.”

  Helena fixed him with a contemptuous stare, then stepped closer until her gaze locked with his. “Take your platitudes and expend them on someone who wants to hear them. God has taken more from me than you could ever imagine. I have not failed Him; He has failed me.”

  The minister stepped back, his eyes widening at the affront, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

  Samuel started to offer apologies, but the Minister waved the Master of Clothworkers away and fled back to the vestry, his gown flapping.

  Helena watched him go, taking the last
vestiges of her resentment with him. The vengeful grief that had twisted her insides all day reduced to no more than a quiet sadness.

  Mother and Uncle Ned were both safe now; nothing could ever hurt them again.

  “The soldiers have gone,” she whispered, though Susannah must have heard her, as she muttered, “Thank the Lord” at her shoulder.

  Helena tilted her head back as pinpoints of light appeared in the deep blue canopy of sky above her. An owl hooted from a tree in the deserted Bartholemew Street, where a lone carriage horse whickered in impatience.

  She linked her arm through Susannah’s as they made their way back to the carriage. ““When my time comes,” Helena said. “I think I should like to be buried by moonlight.”

  “There is no moon,” Henry muttered flatly from behind them.

  * * *

  During the coming days, troopers came to the village and searched houses, questioned villagers, bullied women, and struck out at young boys and old men alike for imagined insolence.

  Helena watched fearfully from an upstairs window as uniformed men hovered by the gate to the farm. Had someone told the Magistrate she and Henry had sought refuge with the Ffoyles? If so, would they have to face punishment for protecting the family of a known rebel.

  She jumped at the clack of the door latch, releasing a pent-up breath at the sight of Rebekah’s smiling face. “Mother asks if you’ll come and join us in the kitchen.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Rebekah’s head disappeared and Helena checked the road for soldiers again, relieved to see they appeared to have left. She picked up her piece of sewing to examine with a critical eye. Her work wasn’t anywhere as skilled as Meghan’s, but in her efforts to be useful and not simply an idle guest, Helena had insisted she give the task a try.