The Rebel’s Daughter

by Anita Seymour

  “One thing at a time, Helena. I believe Samuel has sent a messenger to fetch Henry, so he may be told.”

  “Henry! Yes of course he would want to know. I should have thought…” She noticed he did not say, “Master”, but hardly cared. She rose to her feet, the letter still clutched in her hand. “Thank you, Tobias. You mentioned you had a room, so I assume you’ll be staying here for a while?”

  “A few days. Until I can book passage from Woolwich.”

  “So soon? You’ll have to excuse me. I must find Celia and tell her the good news before Henry arrives. He’s bound to be full of questions.”

  The sound of William’s familiar laugh drew her steps towards the door of the taproom, anticipating his delight at her news. These last few weeks, William always wanted to hear her stories about her family, openly sympathetic where her father and brother were concerned.

  Unlike other taprooms in local hostelries, the room was plain but stylish. There were benches and scrubbed tables set in booths. Shoulder-height glass panels afforded privacy from adjoining patrons who gathered to drink, take an ordinary meal, and talk. The room was always spotlessly clean and the staff disciplined, and what Carstairs called, “of high moral character”.

  Smiling, Helena retraced her steps, intending to go in, knowing he would be as delighted as she to know about Aaron. William occupied a booth opposite the door with an attractive woman, who on closer inspection was hardly in the first flushes of youth. William pressed his lips to her hand, while fixing her with his amorous gaze. From her delighted protestations, Helena could tell she was receiving the same flattery he always employed when he addressed her.

  Helena stepped back into the shadows as a shaft of anger ran through her. A server with a tray narrowly avoided a collision, his expert arm guiding the tray over her head. He turned a grimace into a gracious smile, bowed and moved on into the dining room at the end of the hall.

  Blood throbbed in Helena’s temples as she ran up the stairs, though by the time she gained her room, her sharp disappointment had passed. Why should William not flirt with any woman he chose? Besides, the man had little to do other than hang around the dining rooms in search of female distraction. He lived on the generosity of his father, and possessed no skills of his own with which could begin to provide anything like the life she had lost. He reminded her of a cat, stretching and preening under whoever’s hands he found himself at the time. Sometimes, Helena suspected boredom alone drove him to lay siege to her; so why had seeing him use his charm on another affect her so strongly?

  If she could not attract a wealthy man who could give her what she needed, a reliable one with ambition and ability was her only alternative - not a vain, idle fop, with a roving eye.

  Surprised at herself for allowing William’s actions to disturb her so badly, she refused to allow him to spoil her special day. Helena returned downstairs, resolving never again to be susceptible to William’s feline grace.

  Chapter 18

  Tobias wrapped his heavy long coat around his shoulders, and huddled on the forecastle deck of The Sirius, shivering in the bitter cold, icy salt spray that whipped across his face. He bore the discomfort stoically, preferring to brave the prevailing wind, rather than suffer the nauseating yawing of below-deck.

  The gale howled like an animal in pain, greeted cheerfully by the crew who declared it meant an earlier arrival at their destination. The ship had left Brewhouse Quay on the tide the previous day, and the coast of Holland formed an uneven gray mass on the horizon, partly obscured by horizontal rain.

  The rain turned to drizzle as they pulled into The Hague, the vessel lashed down with ropes.

  Tobias joined the small group of passengers who clumped down the rickety wooden gangplank. None of whom had uttered a word to him throughout the overnight voyage.

  His leather bag tucked under one arm and one hand holding down his hat, Tobias glanced around the dockside, wondering which way to go. An old man approached him, narrowed eyes staring out of a wrinkled face. Tobias grasped his bag tighter, returning the man’s stare in silence.

  “Waar u bent die gaan?” the old man mumbled.

  Tobias frowned, and shook his head

  The man tried again. “Kan ik u de heer helpen?”

  Dismissing the conversation as a waste of his time, Tobias turned to go, when an English voice behind him spoke, “He asks vere you are bound, and can he be off help.”

  A smiling blond man of about his own age sat perched on a cart pulled by a well-built, but elderly horse. “Thank you, sir, I’m looking for a street called-” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and peered at it. “Grote Markt.”

  “The market.” The carter pointed with a curt nod. “I go there. I gif you a ride.”

  Tobias slipped a coin to the old Dutchman, who nodded his thanks and shuffled away.

  “Could you take me to an inn near the market? I need to make enquires.”

  At the carter’s languid nod, Tobias climbed onto the cart, his bag beneath his arm and hand clamped firmly onto his hat. Distracted from his discomfort by the rows of neat, tightly packed brick built houses with ornamental gables, Tobias wondered whether he could have travelled by water instead. Everywhere he looked, the canal weaved along his route, jammed with conveyances piled high with goods and people.

  One thing his foster-father had taught him was that good gratuities made for reliable service. Thus when the man dropped him in the main square, he rewarded him well.

  “Take the door to the left; the landlord knows everyone who comes to The Hague since the summer. He will tell you vere the man is whom you seek.” As if as an afterthought, added. “You don’t vish him harm, I trust?”

  Tobias grinned, hitching his bag beneath his arm. “No, I wish him no harm. He’s a friend.”

  “Goot!” The carter clicked his tongue at his horse. “Prince Villiam is sympathetic to these men, ja?”

  Pulling his collar up against the biting wind, Tobias entered the inn, a low-ceilinged room with roughly-made wooden benches, badly scarred and marked, but which looked clean. The landlord professed no knowledge of Aaron, but another man at a table in the corner of the room proved more forthcoming, in a clipped, disinterested sort of way.

  “Back alley, black door, top floor, rear,” was all he said, pocketing the silver coin Tobias proffered.

  A tiny, wizened man his black cap covering his head down past his ears opened the door, peering up at Tobias with myopic gooseberry eyes. Mention of Aaron’s name brought smiles and nods, together with a pointing finger to an upper floor. He took Tobias to a narrow staircase at the back of the hall and pointed again, indicating he should climb to the top.

  Tobias paused on the tiny landing, placed his bag on the floor and, took a cleansing breath before he raised a fist to knock.

  The door opened tentatively at first, then when the occupant saw who it was he flung it open.

  “Lumm!” Aaron ushered him inside and close the door on the tiny apartment, where he relieved Tobias of his hat and slapped him repeatedly on the back as if reassuring himself he was real.

  “Pardon my hesitation in opening the door just now, but I thought you were a creditor.” Aaron grinned as he guided his visitor to a rickety chair set at a tiny round table in a corner of the room, and bade him sit. “I gather my letter reached mother at Loxsbeare?” He hastily removed a thin pile of linens from an equally fragile chair opposite and sat down. “I apologise for my Spartan lodgings, but they are all I could find.”

  Aaron’s face looked too thin, his blue eyes wary under a vivid red scar that sliced through his left eyebrow, though the broad smile and twinkling blue eyes were unmistakably Aaron Wolfe’s. He wore his fair hair shorter, held at the nape of his neck with a wide black band; most likely in tribute of his lost duke.

  Tobias assessed his surroundings at a glance. Set beneath the eaves of the ancient building, the walls of the room were lime-washed, the floorboards bare and uneven. A small, square gable window
looked onto clumps of contiguous rooftops of the city, washed of their colour under the winter sky. The window held no hangings to keep out the cold wind, and the furniture was old and decrepit. The door of the next room stood open and through it, Tobias spied a narrow bed with meagre coverings.

  His gaze came round to settle on Aaron’s face again, all his well-rehearsed speeches deserted him. “I’ve brought letters for you, Sir.” Tobias, faltered on the “Sir”, but Aaron appeared not to notice. “And money.” He withdrew the bulky packet from his coat and set a square packet and a cloth bag on the table between them.

  “I appreciate them all, Tobias. The money is particularly welcome. As you can see,” he indicated his worn clothes, “I wear hand-me-down garments these days.”

  Aaron stared at the letters hungrily for a moment before turning back to Tobias. “How is everyone at home? I’ve been worried for them all since the Rebellion failed.”

  He leaned his forearms on his knees, his chin jutted forward, a stance so familiar it brought a lump to Tobias’s throat, and he couldn’t speak.

  “Is it so bad?” Aaron whispered.

  At one time, the arrogant Aaron Woulfe had possessed no insight to a man’s feelings. Spoiled and indulged, he had seen no need to dig below the surface to a man’s soul.

  Tobias nodded, admiring of the change in his former master. Where to begin? “There has been no news at all of Sir Jonathan, Master Aaron.”

  “I feared as much.” Aaron exhaled, nodding. “He could have been caught and sent for trial. Then there would be no hope.” He leveled his gaze at Tobias” face, waiting.

  Tobias swallowed. “Your Uncle Edmund is dead.”

  Aaron gave a small groan, then rubbed his hands over his face as if washing it. “May his soul be at peace,” he murmured so Tobias barely heard him. He jerked his head up and met Tobias” gaze. “Was he hanged?”

  “No. Killed at Sedgemoor.” Tobias did not see how the manner of his death made a difference, but this detail appeared to matter to Aaron, who released another low, relieved breath.

  In the heavy silence that followed, Tobias knew if he did not say the rest of it there and then, he might never be able to. He licked his lips and took a deep breath, summoning his courage. “Master Aaron. Your moth-Lady Elizabeth is also dead.”

  Aaron’s eyes widened and his mouth worked silently. He looked away, then back at Tobias, his expression darkening. He leapt to his feet, the wooden chair clattering onto the boards behind him. “You lie!”

  Tobias did not react, merely held his gaze.

  Understanding dawned, and Aaron relaxed his stiff shoulders. Finally, he found his voice. It was cold. “How did she die?”

  Haltingly, Tobias told him about the day the militia came to Loxsbeare. He recounted the scene in the hall when the soldier snatched her necklace, her fall, and Hendry’s grief. The days so vivid in his head, his voice broke before he had finished.

  Aaron’s fists clenched as Tobias talked, his knuckles bloodless, the veins on his neck bulging, as his whole body tensed in suppressed fury.

  When Tobias stopped speaking, he expected Aaron to crash his fist into the wall, or hurl the remainder of the scanty furniture around the room in a rage; or even scream accusations at Tobias.

  Instead, a heavy silence stretched between them until Aaron crumpled to his knees on the bare floorboards, dropped his fair head forward and sobbed like a child.

  Once again, Tobias found himself in the role of physical comforter to one of the Woulfes. This time the grief was so deep, so heart-wrenching in its intensity, Tobias found his own face wet with tears. He murmured repeatedly as they clung together, ironically like brothers, “I am sorry, I am so sorry. I beg your pardon.”

  They broke apart finally, without embarrassment, knowing neither of them would ever speak of the incident again.

  Aaron pulled himself to his feet. “There is nothing to forgive.” He strode to the corner of the room and splashed water on his face from a ewer on a lop-sided dresser. When he spoke again, he seemed chillingly calm, his hair wet at the hairline. “There is an unremarkable eating-house a few doors away. The food is a little unusual. Mostly cold, and consisting of cheese and some odd sort of fish. But it is economical and filling. I have funds, thanks to you. Would you dine with me?”

  The brittle invitation tore at Tobias” heart. He accepted with a silent nod. Aaron collected a shabby brown coat from a hook behind the door, they clattered in single file down the narrow stairs. There was no sign of the old man, as they let themselves out on a street where the biting wind from the North Sea funnelled between the buildings.

  Tobias pulled up his collar and jammed his hat low, but Aaron seemed impervious to the chilly weather.

  The inn was no more than adequate, the food as bland as Aaron had described, but at least their seats in an alcove by the fire gave them privacy. With orange flames reflected in Aaron’s eyes, he listened as Tobias talked.

  Aaron accepted the loss of Loxsbeare with naked, but silent grief, expressing his relief his brother and sister were safe, grateful his mother and uncle received Christian burials. He expressed incredulity at Helena’s foray into Somerset. “She is an unusual girl, my sister.” A tear slid down his cheek, which he wiped away.

  Tobias told him about Henry becoming an apprentice architect, and Aaron’s face suffused with genuine happiness. “You don’t say!”

  The door opened and a face appeared round the jamb. A pair of shrewd eyes scoured the room before alighting on Aaron. The man stepped inside, and as he approached their table, Tobias studied him. He was tall and lean with stringy brown hair and a large, Roman nose that sat uncomfortably on a thin-jawed face. His eyes were sharp and piercing, and he stooped.

  Aaron beckoned the newcomer to their table. “Master Ferguson, do join us.”

  If Tobias hadn’t known the man’s nickname was The Plotter, he would have been able to tell it from his furtive attitude.

  Aaron moved his stool to make room, but the newcomer declined with a hand gesture. “I came ta gie ye the news.” His accent was so thickly Scottish, Tobias had to concentrate to make out his words. “The King has pardoned us, Aaron.” He rolled the name over his tongue, already eyeing the door as if eager to be off to spread the news elsewhere.

  “All rebels?” Aaron tensed.

  “The messenger arrived on The Sirius this morning,” Master Ferguson replied, nodding. “Tha news'll be posted in the market place later today.”

  Tobias frowned, wondering which of the men he had shared passage with had been the messenger.

  Master Ferguson leaned both hands on the table and stared into his friend’s face. “We cae' go haeme Aaron.” He beamed.

  Aaron rose to his feet. “We must tell the others.” He followed Ferguson, to the door, and then turned back. “Tobias, will you wait here until I have consulted with my friends?”

  Bewildered, Tobias nodded. “The next ship for England does not sail for three days.” He glanced around the gloomy taproom. “Might I obtain a room here?”

  Aaron nodded, and then without a backward look, both men were gone.

  * * *

  In the time it took for Tobias to negotiate with the Dutch innkeeper to secure a room, change the linen he had worn for the last two days and wash his face and hands, Aaron had returned.

  A new nervous energy had invaded Aaron. He took his seat in the taproom they had vacated an hour before. From a burdened man, visibly reeling under the recent loss of half his family, Aaron’s eyes had acquired a new determination. His self-possession restored, he reminded Tobias of the young man he knew at Loxsbeare; the arrogant young Crown Prince instructing a servant, with every expectation of unquestioning obedience.

  “When shall I book our passages home, Master?” Tobias asked, keeping his voice low. For some reason, their presence appeared to be attracting attention from other patrons.

  “You’ll be returning alone, Lumm. I’m staying here, in The Hague.”

  �
��For what reason?” Tobias asked, open-mouthed in shock. “The King’s pardon means you can return to England without fear of-”

  Aaron held up a hand. “I have friends here. Friends who saw what I did at Sedgemoor and barely got away with their lives, as I did. We shall not go back to England to live under the tyranny of the Papist King James.”

  “What will you do?” Tobias dipped his nose to his tankard, judging it ill advised to mention life in England under any authoritarian monarch was much the same.

  “I can afford to stay and establish my own household, thanks to our Master of Clothworkers, Samuel Ffoyle.” Aaron grinned and tapped the money pouch inside his coat. “The Prince of Orange sympathizes with our situation. His wife was distraught at her most beloved cousin being murdered by her own father, so I feel sure he’ll soon commit to our cause with troops.”

  Tobias’s gaze swept the room nervously, wishing Aaron would lower his voice, but didn’t like to ask.

  “I can see you don’t understand my reasons, Tobias. However the Protestant religion is in greater danger than ever while this king is on the throne. Can you not see?”

  Tobias couldn’t see. News of the Pardon would be all over England by now. Helena and Henry would be expecting their brother home. How could he return alone? He stared into Aaron’s face in search of a chink in his resolve, but saw none.

  “I have instructions for you, Lumm,” Aaron went on, oblivious of Tobias” discomfort. “On your return to London, I wish you to call on a friend of mine. I’ll give you a letter to take to Master Daniel Foe of Deptford. Accompany him to Samuel at Lambtons. He’ll explain my reasons, if you feel you cannot.”

  The thought of Samuel Ffoyle waiting patiently at Lambton’s for his protégé’s return made the ale curdle in his stomach. At this rate, no one was going to welcome Tobias back, without their precious boy.