The Rebel’s Daughter (3 page)

“
Mother!” Helena’s stomach lurched. How could she talk of
Father in that way?

“
What
are we to do?” Mother muttered, her eyes darting round as if on the
lookout for eavesdroppers. “We’ll lose everything, and I’ll never
see my husband again. We’re doomed.”

Hendr
y’s face blanched and he eased away
from her reaching hand, clawing at his sleeve.

“
Bayle!”
Helena rose, a hand flapping toward him. “Do something!”

However, it was Lumm who scrambled to his
feet, calling to a passing servant. “Fetch Lady Elizabeth’s
maid.”

Tense moments passed until Ruth arrived at
what passed for a run on her tree-trunk legs. She swept the
occupants of the garden with accusing eyes, then ushered the
distraught woman through the rear doors into the house, slamming
them shut.

Helena stared at her lap, dismayed at how
Mother’s outbursts had become more frequent in their vehemence,
though what she said made awful sense. To the world outside
Loxsbeare, Sir Jonathan Woulfe was a traitor. Traitors were
executed in the most horrible way; their heads displayed on pikes
on London Bridge, their possessions seized by the crown, and their
families disgraced.

Her throat felt dry and tears threatened.
She palmed them away, unwilling to let Henry see her cry. What
would happen to her father and Uncle Ned? Aaron was only twenty;
his life had hardly begun. What sort of future could any of them
have with their father disgraced and their name sullied?

Then her fears turned inward, and her
selfish bone intruded. Would any respectable man want to marry his
son to a traitor’s daughter?

Chapter 2

In the space of a few days, the
weather changed from blistering heat that dried up ponds and
cracked the earth, to relentless rain that battered the standing
corn to the ground. Damp crept into every crevice of the house,
tracing patches of green slime on north facing walls,
dragging
Helena’s spirits even lower.

During a brief lull in a summer storm, a
visitor trotted his sorrel Percheron through the manor gates, and
dismounted. Familiar with its surroundings, the sturdy horse stood
passive, and would likely remain so until he was led
away.

“
Good
Morrow, Master Ffoyle.” Helena strode forward in greeting. “And how
is this soft old boy today?” She cupped the horse’s wide muzzle in
both hands, and was rewarded with a gentle whicker.

As tall as Bayle, though he carried less
bulk, Samuel Ffoyle's smiles were infrequent, the sound of his
raised voice even more so. He always dressed in unadorned earth
colors, which Helena’s father always said was less a religious
display inherited from his Puritan parents than his aversion to
wasting time visiting tailors. The changing times of Charles
Stuart’s reign had fostered a close relationship between Samuel
Ffoyle, sheep-farmer-turned-merchant, and Sir Jonathan Woulfe,
landed gentry and courtier.

“
A good
man in a crisis”, her father always said of him.

“
Mistress Helena.” Samuel Ffoyle inclined his head, though
did not slow his stride toward the front door.

Helena hurried to keep pace with him.

The footman bowed the visitor into the
great hall, but refused Helena’s offer to sit.

“
You are
an honest Anglican, are you not, Master Ffoyle?” Helena asked,
drawing his attention away from a painting of a long dead Woulfe
wearing a ruff he must have seen a hundred times before.

Instead of an answer, Samuel’s eyes
swiveled to her face and remained there, waiting.

“
I know
you are, of course,” she said, aware of having already stepped
beyond the boundaries of propriety. “Yet you chose not to go to
Somerset and uphold that faith?”

His eyes widened fractionally, then with
sigh, he placed his hat on a table. “I have a wife and six children
to protect, and a large farm to run. Indeed, my eldest sons would
have taken themselves off to Somerset by now, had I not reminded
them of their duty.”

“
You
forbade them to go?” Helena pictured the faces of Elias, who was
Aaron’s age, and Seth, a year older than Henry.

“
When
they have households of their own to manage, they will be free to
abandon them as they choose.”

About to voice a disrespectful retort,
Helena clamped her lips together, resentful of the fact the Ffoyle
offspring were safe at home while her menfolk were not. It didn’t
seem fair. Before she could voice her feelings, the rustle of heavy
silk heralded the arrival of her mother. With a flick of her hand,
she indicated Helena should withdraw.

She was about to obey, but at the last
second, took the window seat, telling herself she would accept
whatever punishment Mother would mete out later.

Samuel perched awkwardly on a spindle-legged
chair, his knees angled outward from the narrow squab.

“
Lady
Elizabeth,” he began slowly, as if unsure how to approach the
subject, “King James has demanded Prince William of Orange return
the Scots Brigade from Holland, to add to the forces against
Monmouth.”

“
Prince
William did not acquiesce, surely?” she said, her manner calmer
than she had been lately. “He supports Monmouth, who was brought up
with the Princess Mary. They are cousins, and very
close.”

“
The
Prince can hardly refuse.” Samuel sighed. “Those troops were on
loan only in his fight with the French. They are King James’ men
after all.”

Lady
Elizabeth’s delicate hands fluttered
to her throat. “Do you think Monmouth knows?”

“
If we
know, then we must assume he does too.” Samuel shrugged his
shoulders resignedly.

“
Also…the news from Scotland is…disappointing.” Samuel
rubbed his hands along his thighs. “A strong militia presence
ensured the few men who dared turn out in support of the Earl of
Argyll. He managed to elude the Militia for a couple of weeks, but
few gathered to his standard, for fear of reprisals. He’s been
arrested and taken to Edinburgh.” He closed his eyes and
exhaled.

“
Argyll
made Monmouth promise not to declare himself King,” Mother said,
demonstrating a rare moment of lucidity.

“
He was,
my lady. However,” Samuel paused. “In Cheshire too, the number who
arrived in support of the duke fell short of that
anticipated.”

“
I see.”
Lady Elizabeth stared blankly, the colour draining from her already
pale face.

“
The
rebels are having a rough time in Somerset,” Samuel went on. “Their
supplies are nearly gone, and rumour has it that they have resorted
to pilfering and free quartering on the locals.”

“
I doubt
that made them very popular,” Lady Elizabeth gave a snort. “Is it
true King James has pardoned those rebels who have agreed to return
to their homes?” She rocked back and forth in her seat.

It was a
bad sign. Samuel saw it too, and
winced.

“
How
many have left the rebel army?” Helena demanded.

Samuel swung his head in
Helena’s direction,
his eyes sad. “Hundreds maybe. Possibly a thousand.”

Lady
Elizabeth’s delicate fingers picked
at the lace on her cuffs until it tore, and for long seconds no one
spoke.

Helena
’s glanced out of the window. How
much bad news could there be? Beyond the leaded panes, slate clouds
gathered their skirts to bustle away and deluge another part of the
Devon hills. The silence stretched, broken by Samuel’s cough as he
rose and bowed. “I must take my leave.”

“
So
soon?” Lady Elizabeth looked distraught. “I hoped you would dine
with us.”

“
Forgive
me, my lady, but the roads will be quiet at this time of day, and
the fewer who know I am here, the better for you.”

Helena followed him out, and loitered
beside the open front door, as a groom brought Samuel’s horse to
the mounting block.

She frowned, wondering why the lad was not
Parry, then remembered with a pang that the cheerful boy with the
permanent grin had gone to join the rebels.

Helena retreated, then paused as Lumm
appeared from the stables and engaged Samuel in
conversation.

Helen watched, bemused by the intensity of
their exchange. She would have given half her dowry to know what
they were talking about.

If she still had a
dowry.

* * *

“
You
didn’t show Lady Elizabeth the other newssheet then, Tobias?”
Samuel nodded to the folded pages that peeked from the stewards
jerkin, signalling to the boy who held his horse to
wait.

“
What
good would it have served?” Tobias glanced down, but didn’t remove
the paper from his coat. “Monmouth has marched toward
Bath.”

“
Bath
eh? Samuel stroked his chin. “A brave move, since the Royalist
troops are there.”

Tobias shrugged. “They were attacked at
Norton Saint Philip by the Duke of Grafton’s troops.”

“
Grafton
fighting his half-brother,” Samuel mused, nodding. “I expect he’s
eager to prove disloyalty doesn’t run in the family. What
happened?”

“
A
disaster for both sides.” Tobias’ gaze raked the courtyard. “The
report says they were penned in by the hedges, and that blood ran
like a river down the lane where they fought.”

Samuel winced. “I suppose there’s no way
of knowing the names of those killed?”

Tobias shook his head.

The lad holding his horse shuffled and the
animal whickered, stamping his massive hooves.

“
Trust
you to use a working horse as a personal mount,” Tobias reached to
stroke the horse’s soft muzzle.

“
I like
him, he’s slow, steady, and nothing will topple him. He suits. Now
what else do you have to tell me?”

“
Monmouth cut his losses and retreated to Frome,” Tobias
went on. “They got as far as Trowbridge, but the royal troops men
cut off their escape route.”

“
Where’s
Monmouth now?” Samuel asked, frowning.

“
The
report ends before that.” Tobias tapped his pocket. “Though gossip
in the city says he reached Wells two days ago. The rebels damaged
the west front of the cathedral. They tore lead from the roof and
smelted it into bullets.”

“
The
fools!” Samuel mounted the block and slipped into the saddle.
“Monmouth won’t get to Bristol now, let alone London.”

“
Gets
worse,” Tobias added. “They broke the windows and smashed the organ
and the furnishings. They even stabled their horses in the nave.”
He squinted up at the mounted man, shielding his eyes from the sun
with one hand.

Samuel adjusted his hat before replying.
“You’re right not to upset Lady Elizabeth further, Tobias.” He
turned the horse toward the gate. “However, if I were you, I’d keep
that news-sheet away from Mistress Helena, she’ll be asking awkward
questions soon enough.”

“
She
distrusts me, that one.” Tobias pulled a face.

“
She
doesn’t know you, Tobias.”

“
Doesn’t
know who I am, you mean?” His voice held bitterness.

Samuel turned his horse away, not prepared
to discuss the subject further. Not at the present
moment.

Tobias rushed forward and grabbed the
reins, halting the horse who chomped at the bit noisily. “I would
never have raised the subject in Sir Jonathan’s presence. But
now?”

“
It’s a
bad time.” Samuel grimaced, urging his horse forward. He had
reached the gates before he heard Tobias’s angry shout.

“
It’s
always a bad time!”

At the top of South Street, Samuel slowed
his horse to a canter, his thoughts dwelling on recent events. Two
hundred Whigs had been arrested in London, among them prominent
cloth workers and members of his Samuel’s guild. He had written
letters of protest on their behalf, while reassuring the City
Magistrates of his own loyalty to the king despite his own Whig
leanings.

Unsurprisingly, Samuel had come under
scrutiny since the Duke’s landing, although he chose not to mention
that to Lady Elizabeth. His father had been a Puritan, but
disinclined to martyrdom, Samuel had furrowed a less controversial
path. Although he still had to watch out for accusing
fingers.

There would always be those willing to
throw suspicion on others, to further their own
ambitions.

With a nod to the porter at the West gate,
Samuel urged the plodding horse on the Exe Bridge. Entering St
Thomas, he pulled his cloak tighter against a gust of damp wind,
and peered beneath the rim of his hat at the darkening sky. Leaning
forward, he patted the animal’s steaming neck, murmuring
reassurances.