Haunted Ground (17 page)

October 1650

England

Rowan huddled deeper into the bedclothes, pulling her legs up to her chest, more for comfort than for warmth.  The October days were still deliciously mild, smelling of sun-warmed earth and hay, but the nights were cold, the chilly air nipping at her bare skin when the thin blanket slid off in her sleep.  Her aunt smoored the fire at bedtime, allowing the house to become cold as a tomb overnight, but Rowan slept close to the hearth and could still feel some warmth from the chimney stones.  They radiated heat like the warm brick that her mother used to put at her feet during the coldest months of the winter.

She hoped Brendan was warm enough.  Reverend Pole rarely lit a fire unless it was bitterly cold.  The old reverend was oblivious to bodily discomfort, eating only when there was something to eat, and sleeping only when he could no longer stay upright.  He’d become forgetful, but miraculously could still recite the scripture from memory, and write sermons that left everyone’s behinds numb after hours of sitting in the hard pews.  Going to Reverend Pole’s house daily to care for him was not a ruse.  He’d probably forget to eat and starve if someone didn’t come in, light the fire, and prepare something warm to put in his belly.  Rowan also made sure to wash his shirts and underthings since he wasn’t likely to do it himself. 

Only a few years ago, the old man had been in robust health, walking for miles to see a parishioner or to clear his mind with vigorous exercise.  Reverend Pole was deteriorating, and Rowan felt a pang of sadness at the certain knowledge that he wasn’t going to last much longer.  That was the strange thing about life; it gave you people to care for and then took them away, sometimes suddenly, leaving you bereft and grieving, unable to do anything to alleviate the hurt that was burning a hole in your heart.

And Brendan…  He was up there in that loft with nothing to keep him warm but his fury.  He’d been beside himself when he found out about the accusation of murder.  If he were caught, he was as good as dead.  No one would believe that his own brother had sent men to kill him, or that he had planted Brendan’s belongings by the bodies to incriminate him.  Whatever his reasons, Jasper wanted his brother dead.  How could people who were supposedly made in the image of God and who claimed to be decent, God-fearing folk be so unbearably cruel?  This train of thought led her down a dark passage to a door she tried to keep locked at all times.  Even a slight peek left her shaking violently, her heart hammering against her ribs until she thought it might break with the strain.  She knew that sooner or later she’d have to face the truth and find a way to move forward, but the memories were still fresh and heartbreakingly real, and the dreams that haunted her nights a merciless reenactment of the horrible day which changed her life forever.

Rowan wrapped her arms around her knees, bringing them even closer to her chest until she was in a fetal position.  It made her feel safe, although as she learned the day her mother died, there was no such thing as safety.  She had begun to feel somewhat removed from the nightmare, living with Uncle Caleb and Aunt Joan, until Brendan appeared out of the blue, tearing her peace apart at the seams, and reminding her that destiny had come knocking, just as her mother said it would.  Rowan had tried to keep her distance, averting her eyes when she could, especially when applying the salve to his wounds, her hands touching his warm flesh as he gazed up at her, trying to catch her eye.  He wasn’t just angry; he was lonely and lost, and he needed her as much as she needed him.  His hazel eyes were so warm and melancholy when he looked at her, silently asking her not to leave so soon and spend a little more time with him.  She wanted to, oh dear God, she wanted to, but every conversation, every shared smile, every touch would lead her further down the path of destruction. 

The wise thing to do would be to marry Stephen as planned. His period of mourning would be over very soon, and once she took her vows in the sight of God, there’d be no going back.  Stephen was kind, sweet, and devoted to her, but her heart didn’t skip a beat when she looked into his eyes, and she involuntarily pulled her hand away whenever he intertwined his fingers with hers as they walked down the lane.  She might have grown to love him in time if it wasn’t for the unexpected arrival of the one man who’d haunted her dreams since she was a girl
—
Brendan Carr. 

Rowan hadn’t even realized that she was smiling as she mouthed his name into the darkness.  How was it possible to feel so much for someone she barely knew; to crave his smile and long for his touch when no words of love had been spoken?  But she knew in her heart that they would be, and she would be there to hear them, because as God was her witness, she wasn’t leaving him to marry Stephen.

Brendan gingerly turned onto his stomach to take some pressure off the wound on his back.  After a few hours, it felt as if it were being roasted over an open flame, no matter how much salve Rowan put on it.  It needed time to heal, and no amount of medicine would make it better.  Brendan gritted his teeth as he settled into the new position.  The loft was cold as a grave, the fire in the hearth downstairs long since burnt out.  He could hear Reverend Pole snoring loudly, the sound alternating between rumbling and wheezing, punctuated by a wet cough that seemed to come straight from the old man’s chest. 

Brendan had no idea what time it was, but it had to be past midnight.  The tiny square of sky outside the window was pitch black, and even the forest creatures were silent, sleeping in their burrows and nests.  He fancied he could hear the sound of waves lapping at the shore, but that was only his imagination playing tricks on him since the sea was too far away to hear anything, even in a great storm.  Brendan wished he could just fall asleep and find temporary oblivion from the thoughts that had been racing through his brain since Reverend Pole told him of the latest development.  Every time he thought of his belongings being found on the bodies, his chest burned as if he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. 

It wasn’t bad enough that his own brother, his flesh and blood, tried to have him murdered, but now he’d gone as far as to try to incriminate him and take away the only thing he had left – his good name.  Brendan had turned the matter over in his mind countless times, but he couldn’t find any way to prove his innocence or reclaim the estate.  Jasper had stitched him up pretty good.  Maybe that’s why Brendan was hearing the sound of waves.  His mind was telling him to turn to the sea.  He could sail to the Colonies and start a new life, away from the political turmoil of England, and away from his treacherous brother.  Let him have his victory, and may it taste bitter in his mouth.  Brendan would be happy enough to leave if only he could be sure that Meg wouldn’t be harmed and that her boys would be looked after.  He hoped his sister might find another husband, one who would care for her and her children.  She was still a young woman, and could give a man children of his own, if that’s what he desired.  Jasper would probably be only too happy to see the back of her, especially once he was married to Mary.  Unless Mary fancied keeping Meg at the house, treating her as a servant instead of a good-sister.  Was Meg even safe, considering that she believed Jasper had a hand in their father’s death? 

Brendan sighed and closed his eyes.  He was mentally exhausted; the same thoughts spinning in his brain for the past two days, the questions torturing him with their futility.  What could he do?  He couldn’t even decamp to the New World until his wounds healed, by which time it would be too late in the year to sail.  He’d have to wait till spring, trapped in this loft unless he wanted to be arrested for murder and hanged. He suddenly wished he could talk to his father and ask for his guidance.  He hadn’t appreciated his father’s wisdom when he tried to impart it, and now it was too late to make amends, too late to ask for help.

The only bright spot in all this was Rowan.  He counted the minutes each morning until he heard her light footstep on the wooden floor below, and almost held his breath in anticipation until the top of her head appeared above the opening into the loft, her eyes fixed on him as if he were the only person she wanted to see.  She’d avert her eyes after a moment, but Brendan would smile inwardly, certain that he’d seen her look of longing, and allowed himself a moment of happiness before remembering his predicament, his thoughts chasing each other like rats in a maze until his head ached. 

Brendan smiled in the darkness as he thought of Rowan.  She gave him hope, and as long as there was hope, there was life.  Giving up wasn’t an option, and he would come up with a way out of this situation.  He must allow himself time to heal, and then he would come up with a solution, one that would put everything to rights.

Scotland

October 1650

Oliver Cromwell closed his eyes and gently massaged the bridge of his nose in the futile hope that the vicious headache encircling his skull like a metal vise would ease up, but the pounding continued, bright spots appearing before his eyes when he dared open them again. 
Damn the Scots
, he thought vengefully, as well as the Irish.  Why did God, his God, tolerate these Papist vermin?  At the moment, they were the bane of his existence, but the Irish and Scottish campaigns were just stepping stones to bigger issues that were brewing back home in England.  It’d been less than a year since the execution of Charles I and already there were some who were clamoring for a new king.  These narrow-minded fools could not grasp the idea of a republic.  All they knew was a monarchy; the king being God’s representative on Earth.  Without a king they were lost, frightened like little children who got separated from their mother, or father in this case. 

Cromwell wasn’t ready to address the issue just yet, but at some point a new figurehead would have to take the place of the king and sit on the throne.  Cromwell smiled despite his headache.  Who was he kidding?  A new figurehead indeed.  He would sit the throne of England and no one else.  Not after everything he’d sacrificed and done for the country.  Of course, calling himself a king would only bring fresh outrage and debate from the accursed Parliament, so he might have to give himself a different title, one that granted him all the powers of a monarch, but still allowed the common people who believe that he was serving the Republic.  That was a pleasant thought which was interrupted by a knock at the door.  Cromwell filed away his precious fantasy to be examined more closely lately and called out for the visitor to enter.

“Captain Mortimer, what can I do for you?” Cromwell asked, watching the captain from under hooded eyes.  Captain Mortimer was a good man, a man to trust and a man to reward.  He had unshakeable faith in God, and in Oliver Cromwell, both to his credit.  “May I offer you a cup of barley water, Robert?” Cromwell asked as he poured some for himself and gestured to an empty chair by the hearth.  The fire wasn’t lit, but it was better to sit side by side, rather than have Mortimer on the other side of the large mahogany desk, feeling more like an underling than an equal.  Well, almost an equal. 

Robert Mortimer accepted the cup of barley water, but made no move to take a drink.  He’d rather go thirsty than drink this swill Cromwell favored.  Cromwell never partook of strong spirits and had prohibited drinking throughout the land, which in Captain Mortimer’s opinion was like prohibiting breathing or procreation.  He followed and obeyed, like the good soldier that he was, but he was no Puritan and took his pleasures where he found them.  Mortimer lowered himself into the chair, thankful for a few moments of rest.  He dreaded the coming conversation, but his loyalty to the Republic was greater than his loyalty to a friend, and may God forgive him for what he was about to do since he’d likely never forgive himself. 

Cromwell steepled his fingers beneath his chin, as if in deep contemplation, and waited for the captain to begin. In truth, he would have much rather retired to bed, having been up for more than twenty-four hours, but Captain Mortimer was a loyal and sensible man, so whatever was causing him anxiety must be something urgent and needful of consideration.  “What’s troubling you, Robert?”

Captain Mortimer scratched his head and stared into the empty hearth for a moment before turning to face Cromwell at last.  He was looking for encouragement, but Cromwell remained silent, watching the myriad emotions chasing each other across Mortimer’s rugged features before he finally spoke, his voice low and raspy. 

“It’s Captain Carr, sir.  All the dead and wounded have now been accounted for and Carr appears to be neither.  Seems he fled after the battle, using the chaos of the aftermath to mask his escape.  Several of his men have come forward attesting to this.  They’d seen him riding away.  His desertion has caused unrest among the men.”

Captain Mortimer looked pained, but continued when Cromwell failed to comment.  “Carr was a highly respected officer, a leader the men looked up to.  His departure has sown seeds of doubt about the righteousness of our cause, here and in Ireland.  I told the men that Brendan had a crisis of conscience since his grandfather was a Scot, although a Presbyterian, but that’s done very little to comfort them.  Three more men have stolen away during the past week.” 

Mortimer gulped down the barley water without thinking and nearly gagged before setting the cup on the floor with a bang, angry at the current situation and Brendan’s part in it.  They’d been friends for years, and fought side by side in Ireland before coming with Cromwell to Scotland.  Brendan did occasionally dissent, but Captain Mortimer never expected him to just turn tail and run.  Yes, his granddad on his mother’s side had been a Scot, but what of it?  That didn’t change the fact that those infernal Scots had declared Charles II their king and threatened the Republic they’ve fought so hard for.  Scotland and Ireland was the back door to England, and needed to be dealt with in the severest manner, so as not to be a threat again. Yes, he was doing the right thing, he told himself for the hundredth time, but although his mind agreed, his treacherous heart condemned him, just as he’d condemned Brendan to death.

Cromwell rubbed the bridge of his nose again.  His headache had abated somewhat, but now it came back full-force, leaving him blinded with pain.  He was fully aware of Carr’s desertion and personally, he wanted to drag the man to the gallows and put a noose around his neck, but if he gave chase to every single man who disagreed with his politics and deserted the army, he’d have no army left.  Carr wasn’t worth the effort.  He was a competent soldier, and a one-time friend, but not enough of a threat to expend manpower on.

“What do you propose, Robert?” he asked, more out of politeness and desire to be done with this topic than because he really wanted to know.  It must have taken Mortimer much soul-searching to come to him, so the least Cromwell could do was talk it over with him and make him feel respected and appreciated.  He smiled inwardly, reflecting on Mortimer’s loyalty to him.  If only all his men were so steadfast.

“Permitting high-ranking officers to decamp without consequences is a sign of weakness, and allows the men to think that they have a choice.  What’s to stop them from deciding that they’ve had enough and want to go home?  The battle of Dunbar was a resounding success, and the men are buoyant and content for the moment, but we might not be victorious in the next battle or the one after that, and more discontent will lead to more desertion.  There must be retribution.”  Captain Mortimer banged the armrest of the chair for emphasis, his mouth set into a thin line, and his eyes blazing with purpose. 

“I couldn’t agree more, Robert, but I can’t spare good men to pursue every ruffian who doesn’t agree with my policies.  I’m doing God’s work.  If Captain Carr, or whoever else, can’t see that, then let God punish them, as I’m certain he will.  I have bigger battles to fight, but I would like to hear your suggestion.  Seems you’ve given this a lot of thought.”  Morale among the men was always of paramount importance, so rumbles of discontent were not to be ignored.  Captain Mortimer would not be here if he didn’t believe action was required.

“I have a few men who are feeling restless, sir.  They are the type who only come alive when fighting and killing.  Let me send them to arrest Carr.  They’ll bring him back to stand trial.  It will be good for the men to see that you’re in control and won’t be undermined by dissent,” Captain Mortimer suggested.

“I was under the impression that Carr was your friend.  Was I mistaken?” Cromwell inquired, watching Mortimer intently.  He needed to be sure there were no ulterior motive here, like a woman. 

“Friendship has no place in politics, sir.”  Mortimer sat up straighter, supported by his moral superiority and zeal. 

Cromwell studied Captain Mortimer’s profile as he turned back toward the hearth.  He looked older than twenty-eight, the years of fighting having taken a toll on the man’s body and soul.  Mortimer cared deeply about the cause, and his loyalty needed to be rewarded, especially since Carr had been his particular friend.  A public trial of a deserter, and his subsequent execution, would reassure those still loyal and discourage those who were wavering in their conviction – a satisfactory outcome all around.

“You’re right, of course, Robert.  I defer to your judgment in this case.  Send your men, but make sure they bring Carr back to stand trial.  Killing him in England will serve no purpose other than vengeance, and that’s not my goal in this matter.  We’ll make an example of him.  Now, please leave me.  I have some work to do before I retire.” 

Captain Mortimer gave Cromwell a stiff bow, jammed his hat on his head and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. 
Cromwell looked exhausted and ill
, Mortimer thought,
and needed his rest
.  He sighed, knowing he’d get no sleep tonight, plagued by guilt over what he’d just done to a man he’d called a friend.