Treason's Daughter (40 page)

Hen doesn't believe half of it. She has watched Ned talking animatedly to Lucy about his dealings with the king, and seen how he colours slightly when his sister catches his eye. No doubt he's close enough to give the tales a flavour of truth, but to hear him
talk you would imagine him to be the king's greatest confidant. Lucy hangs off his every word, though. She wears her reflected glory like emeralds.

Hattie, who drops by often, bearing choice cuts and home brew, has to turn away whenever she hears the phrase, afraid of catching Hen's eye and collapsing into laughter. Hen does not begrudge Lucy her triumph, however. She likes it that her sister-in-law is kinder to Ned at present, even if she is irritated by the cause.

Today Lucy's smug sheen is almost unbearable. She has confided some news to Hen in round notes that suggest this is a confidence widely shared.

‘Yes, I am with child.' She strokes her still-flat stomach often and ostentatiously.

Blackberry throws his pottage across the room, where it hits the wall and splatters. Lucy looks at him, wrinkling her nose.

‘Perhaps if you just…' she begins, an expert suddenly now she has a child in her. She catches sight of Hen's face and trails off.

‘Come on, my darling.' Hen coaxes a little into his mouth, and he grins with his new and startling teeth.

‘Will says that the king still refuses to plead,' says Patience, turning the subject hastily.

‘His Majesty told my husband that he would not,' says Lucy. ‘Not recognizing the legitimacy of the court, you see. He says that it is enshrined in Magna Carta that an Englishman can only be tried by his peers. He is the king and has no peers, therefore he cannot be tried.'

‘Why does he bother?' says Hen, irritated. ‘They will kill him whatever he says.'

‘Kill him?' shrieks Lucy. ‘Abdication, surely. Exile at worst.'

Hen turns round to look at her, ignoring Blackberry whining at the disappearance of his spoon.

‘Lucy. You don't really think that. What were the charges Cooke laid out? That he is a “tyrant, traitor, murderer and a public and implacable enemy to the Commonwealth of England”. And you think they will slap his wrists and pack him off? Perhaps to Ireland, where the Earl of Ormonde is marshalling his army of papists? Or to France, where the Prince of Wales leaves off his whoring long enough to pimp for arms? Please.'

‘But the court has no legitimacy, Hen. His Majesty told Ned.' Lucy pets her bottom lip, forgetting it is Hen not Ned who needs mollifying.

‘The Magna Carta also says that no one is above the law, not even the king,' says Patience, who looks unhappy at her inept attempt to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Will says that a sovereign's power is held in trust and can only be exercised in keeping with our traditional liberties.' She looks like a schoolboy reciting his Cicero, and Hen smiles at her.

‘But who is to decide what is what?' says Lucy, sniffing.

Hen spoons more pap at a reluctant Blackberry. ‘So it may be subjective,' she says. ‘What is a traditional liberty? Blackberry would say it's not having his tyrant mother force this gloop on him. But the late wars and the men killed? There is no world, real or imagined, where that can subjectively be termed in the people's interest. So he has broken the trust. And so…' She ends on an interrogative.

‘So the king must die,' finishes Patience.

‘The king must die,' Hen says. Blackberry swallows a loaded spoon, and she claps, laughing as he claps back at her.

As the trial progresses, two things become clear to Ned. The first is that the king is winning the war of words in his constant refusal to recognize the legitimacy of the court. And the second is that, by winning, he is signing his own death warrant. Without his acceptance of the charges, there can be no face-saving compromise. He will not abdicate in favour of his younger son.

‘It is the liberty of the people of England that I stand for,' says the king. Ned is reminded of childhood games. Beneath the verbosity, the king shouts: ‘I'm liberty,' and Cooke shouts back: ‘No, I'm liberty!'

Ned grows irritated. As the days progress, everyone knows that the king's life has been forfeited by his customary obstinacy. And yet they insist on carrying on with this legal masque.

Will insists that the end is not already writ, and that important precedents are being wrangled here. The lawyer and the soldier will not agree. God's will must be done in this, thinks Ned. His will alone is what counts, for all our earthly posturing.

At last, the only possible sentence is passed. As the king is led from court, the soldiers forget themselves. There are hundreds of them. He has escaped before and Parliament's agents are warning of fresh attempts to break him out. But the troopers are in mutinous mood. They shout and jostle him. Ned wades in to push them back. Some spit at the king, shouting for his head. One solitary voice cries: ‘God save the king!' and the nearest officer strikes him with a cane.

Ned uses his parade voice to call them back to order. The
king is bundled into his sedan chair, and looks back at Ned as he blusters and shouts at his unruly men.

The two porters carrying the chair have removed their caps as a sign of respect. The soldiers surround them and abuse them, shouting until the frightened men put their caps back on and pick up the chair. At last the chair moves off. One of the porters has a cut lip, and blood trickles down his chin.

Ned and his men watch the chair go. Behind him, he hears a voice he recognizes. Turning, he sees Hugh Peter, Cromwell's chaplain. His eyes are fixed on the departing chair. In his raised hand is the Bible, the one he carried from Marston Moor to Naseby and onwards.

‘Let the High Praises of God be in their mouth and a two-edged sword in their hand, to execute vengeance upon the heathen and punishments upon the people.'

Ned drops to his knees. The cold, sodden mud seeps through his trousers. He listens to Peter's familiar tones, feeling the Word seep into him. He wants to be sure again, to know that glorious absence of doubt, that holy certainty. He hears his men thud down next to him.

‘To bind their kings with chains, and their nobles with fetters of iron; to execute upon them the judgement written; this honour have all His saints. Praise ye the Lord!'

London simmers.

Voices cry from the shadows: ‘Long live the king!' Bands of drink-bold men wander the streets. Soldiers tramp and look for
trouble. From beyond Hen's window, strange shrieks and shouted slogans intermingle. Inside, she huddles close to the fire, singing tuneless half-snatches of songs to Blackberry.

Suddenly, shockingly, there is a tapping on the door.

‘Who's there?'

No one answers. She puts Blackberry down and moves closer to the door. Her heart slams against her chest.

‘Lucy?'

A tapping again, fainter this time.

She drags the chest towards the door, so it can open only fractionally. Turning the handle, she pulls it towards her. A figure sits, back slumped against the wall. She brings her candle closer to the gap. At first she can only see the blood, and a tangle of hair. Then the head lifts towards the light, she sees his bloodless face.

Sam.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

January 1649

F
OOTSTEPS APPROACH THE DOOR. HEN RUSHES OVER AND
opens it a fraction. Lucy.

‘Well, let me in,' she says.

‘It's Blackberry. He's ill. A rash.'

Lucy pulls back from the door. A hand instinctively goes to her cheek. She has a horror of smallpox. Hen has seen her close her eyes to avoid seeing disfigured faces, as if the act of observing could somehow draw the sickness down upon her. Lucy's fingers stroke her own cheek softly.

‘Will he…' She trails off.

‘I don't know,' says Hen, pleading with God in her heart to close his ears. Let not this lie be held against me, Lord. Let it not be twisted into prophecy.

‘I'll go to Ned. He'll find somewhere for me.' She pauses, her voice brightening. ‘Near His Majesty, perhaps.'

Hen holds the door tight, her loathing of Lucy consuming her. Something shows on her face, and Lucy seems suddenly uncertain. Humble, almost.

‘I hope Blackberry—' she begins to say, but Hen slams the door and turns back into the room.

Hattie, crouched low over Sam's body, sniffs at the wound in his side. The blanket beneath him is sodden with blood.

There is a smell of roasting meat in the room. Hattie walks to the fire and rakes out a piece of beef from the coals. With the tongs, she presses it against Sam's wound. He grunts with the pain, unconscious despite the sizzling and spitting of the beef. Blood leaks down his side still, mingling with the juices from the meat. The smell of crisping flesh and the pools of blood combine to make Hen feel dizzy and faint.

She sits heavily in a chair beside the bed. Blackberry is asleep next door, oblivious.

Hattie sits up, passing a hand over her forehead and leaving a trail of blood.

‘Well?' Hen asks.

‘I don't know,' she says. ‘You should call in someone, Hen.'

‘No.'

Hattie gets up, wiping her hands on a reddened cloth.

‘Well, then.'

‘Sorry, Hattie. I'm just . . .'

‘Scared? Listen, love. Don't tell me more. Clean edges, that's a sword cut. Not deep, but perhaps deep enough, we shall see. And I'm not blind, Hen. Stranger, my arse. Good Samaritan my arse.'

They both turn to look at Sam's face. His eyes are closed; hair sticks to his clammy forehead. He is white as Kentish chalk, with purpling like a bruise round his mouth. For all that, he is still the spit of her. She crosses over to him and pushes the stray hair back from his face.

‘What's he doing here?' says Hattie.

‘I don't know. He hasn't spoken. Just fell in like this. I came for you. Sorry, I shouldn't have. I'm sorry.'

‘Well,' says Hattie. ‘I've left Anne long enough.'

She seems to relent at the misery on Hen's face. ‘If it were me alone, Hen, I'd not mind. But I've the child to think of.'

Hen's eyes flick to Blackberry and then back to her friend.

‘Sorry,' she mumbles again, hunched in her chair. ‘No one will know. Lucy thinks we've the pox, and Patience has been called home to her mama. It's just me and the boy.'

Hattie reaches over and cups her cheek. ‘Don't worry.' She pulls her stuff together into a bag. ‘Listen, my darling. He can't be moved for a few days. That wound has some breaking to do. If he comes through, get him out of here.'

Hen nods, numb with misery.

‘Sorry, Hen. But have you thought on it? About Blackberry?'

‘Of course. You think I don't know that Blackberry is at risk? He's my life, Hattie.'

‘Come, honey. Let us not quarrel. But think on this. If they did what they did to Mary for printing some seditious words, what would they do to you for sheltering a traitor? They are all filled with their righteousness, Hen, and scent the king's blood. They're like a pack on the trail, and what do you think they will do to those who get in the way of the kill?'

‘Henrietta.'

A voice, sharp and familiar, pulls her to wakefulness. She is
in the narrow bed with Sam, holding on to him, trying to keep him warm.

Ned. He stands over them, a familiar silhouette in the gloom.

She sits up, confused. A metallic taste like blood is in her mouth, and her arm is sore where she has been lying on it. There, between them, is Sam, still lost but with some colour now. She strokes his hair.

‘Ned. I was sleeping.'

‘So I see.'

‘What are you doing here?'

‘Lucy said Blackberry was sick. I came to help.'

‘Oh.'

She looks beyond Ned to the window, to the dull glimmer of a winter dawn. She gets out of bed, shivering at the cold. She pads across the room to where Blackberry is sleeping. It must be nearly time for him to wake. Sleeping, he looks like his father, serious and still. Awake, there's too much life in him to resemble Will. He bubbles with it, pours it into mischief or climbing. Sam was like that as a boy.

Ned taps his foot, impatient.

‘I assume there is nothing wrong with Blackberry,' he says.

Hen shakes her head.

Blackberry stirs, waking. He looks straight at her and grins sleepily. She scoops him up, his flushed face pressing into her neck. ‘Hey hey, my Blackberry. Hey hey.'

He looks over her shoulder to where Ned stands and points at him. ‘Neh,' he shouts happily. ‘Neh!'

Ned smiles, despite himself.

‘Yes, clever bird,' Hen coos into Blackberry's ear. ‘Uncle Ned!'

‘Henrietta,' says Ned in the voice his men have learned to fear. ‘What's Sam doing here?'

‘I don't know. ‘

Ned shakes Sam's shoulder. ‘Sam!' he shouts. ‘Sam.' Sam stirs, and his eyeballs seem to shudder under the lids, but he does not wake.

‘Ned! He's hurt.'

‘Hurt how?'

‘Hattie thinks it is a sword cut,' she says.

‘Lord, help us. How long has he been here?'

‘Two nights.'

‘Has he spoken?'

She shakes her head. ‘Not much. Nonsense. He has been feverish.'

He pulls back the blankets. The blood on the sheets is crusty and dark, but there's no new redness on the bandages.

‘Lord, Hen,' says Ned. ‘There was an attempt to free the man Charles two nights past. Beaten off, but they melted away.' He looks into Sam's face intently, as if he can read it.

‘The MPs are to meet soon,' he says over his shoulder to Hen. ‘They may kill him as early as tomorrow.'

He pulls back from Sam and walks over to the window, looking sideways along the street. Outside they can hear the sounds of the City stirring. It's a muted sound of carts rumbling and echoing footsteps. A troubled, frightened City.

Hen ducks under his arm to see. The cold air on her face wakes her, and she breathes deeply. He speaks behind her, and she can feel the vibration of his chest pressed into her back. He kisses the top of her head, unthinkingly aping a gesture her father used to make.

‘He must have been part of it. Oh, Hen. What is he doing, mixed up with this… this villainy?' He looks back across the room. ‘He looks so much older. I suppose we are used to each other, and the ageing. But seeing him like this, it's…'

‘I know,' she says. ‘Hattie says not to move him.'

Ned begins to speak slowly into her hair, as if to a small child. ‘Hen, he tried to rescue the man Charles. He knows where his fellows are hiding. Hen, I must take him in.'

She breaks away from him. ‘Ned, you cannot mean it. They'll kill him.'

‘And how many has the man Charles killed, Hen? How many times has he defied the will of our Lord, and led us all like sheep into misery and slaughter? And Sam wants to let him go free so he can do it again. No, Hen. No.'

‘Ned. I say again, you cannot be serious. He is our brother. And they will kill him.'

He hugs his cloak round his shoulders. His eyes are screwed tightly shut.

‘I have my duty.'

‘He is your brother. And what of us, Ned? Will they not notice his patched-up wound, do you think? Will they not think of me, and Blackberry?'

The boy wriggles to be free, and she sits him down on the floor. Off he crawls, impatient.

‘Hen. Be reasonable. Charles has been found a murderer and a tyrant.'

‘By whose authority, Ned? It seems to me that your Rump Parliament is as tyrannical as Charles ever was. Who is Ireton? Who is Cromwell? Where is your precious Fairfax? Hiding in his
wife's skirts. You know this is all a farce.'

‘It is God's will.'

‘Are you as implacable as your God, Ned?'

‘Our God, Henrietta, has made clear His will.'

‘And it is His will that you kill your brother? Are you Cain, now, Ned? You will do to Sam what our father died thinking you did to him?'

Ned looks across at her, and she watches the pain spread on his face. Good. He is so unyielding when he thinks he is right.

He walks across to Sam, pushing Hen to one side. Wordlessly, he runs his hand down his brother's cheek. Hen sees then that he is crying.

Softer, she says: ‘Surely, Ned, we have a duty to those who love us. What about your duty to me, to Will, to…' She pauses, Lucy's name sticking on her lips. ‘To our parents?' she finishes.

‘And what about your duty, Henrietta?'

‘Me?'

‘Will you teach your son that the only thing worth fighting for is survival? You sit in here cowering. You're so terrified that you have forgotten how to stand upright.'

‘It's not true.'

‘Isn't it? If Charles escapes, Hen, through Sam's deeds and our complicity, what kind of world will it be for Blackberry?'

‘What kind of world will it be anyway, Ned? You all talk of this regicide as the end of it all. But what comes next? How will we be governed? None of you know. Are you fighting for the same cause you started out in, Ned? When did you turn Republican? I don't recall that in forty-two.'

‘Enough of this. You're just a woman; you can't understand.'

She turns to him and he sees a flash of the old fire. ‘Just a woman? So I cannot understand as well as you?'

‘No, Hen. You cannot. How many comrades have you watched die, slowly and in pain, because of the man Charles? I had a friend, at the Battle of Maidstone, whose stomach was shot open. He tried to scoop his own guts up and pack them back in, Hen. And the look on his face, you would not believe it. Wonderment. Pure confusion. A pointless half-arsed battle in a pointless half-arsed place.'

‘You've always got half an eye on the next world, Ned. He's gone there; be happy for him. I don't care. I don't know him.'

‘That's not worthy of you. God gave us this world, Hen. No one said it is easy, but we have a responsibility to make it reflect His own image.'

‘We're doing well, hey, Ned? Is He venal, stupid and blood-drunk too?'

‘Hen!'

She waves away his remonstrance impatiently. She paces the room, searching for something, anything, to convince him.

‘Responsibility. Duty. What of love, Ned? Didn't our Lord overflow with that?'

‘He does not love one more than another, Hen. You'd have me save Sam's life and let all the others be damned?'

‘Yes.'

‘No!'

They stand and look at each other.

A voice breaks in. ‘Pudding cat!'

They look over towards the bed. Sam is awake. Grinning, even, for all love.

Hen rushes over, and kisses his bloodless face and grimy hands.

He looks over her head to where Ned stands. ‘Thirsty,' he says, and Hen tips water into his dry mouth. She props him up on some cushions, noting how broad he has become, her skinny brother, how muscle has packed on his frame. The sun has burnt his face and forearms but left his body an ethereal white.

‘Oh, Hen,' he says. ‘It's mortal good to see you. You look lovely.'

‘Did they wound your eyes with your belly, Sam?'

‘Aye, and perhaps knocked me about the head while they were at it, the sods, for this all seems a dream.'

‘For the love of Christ!' Ned spins on them, furious. ‘Are we at a fucking masque? Are we exchanging tittle-tattle? Henrietta. Sam is a traitor. Do you understand? A God-cursed, imp-spawned traitor?'

‘Good to see you too, Neddy,' drawls Sam, and Hen jumps anxiously to her feet. She cannot remember the last time she saw Ned lose control. He looks murderous, vicious. Oddly young. She stands between him and Sam, waiting for a blow.

She watches Ned find his control. He walks to the chair, Will's chair, and throws himself into it. His hands grip the armrests and his head presses into the chair's back, as if he is restraining himself.

‘What a time for jokes,' he says. ‘You always were a damn sight too full of levity, Sam.'

‘And you were always a damn sight too severe,' counters Sam.

‘Were you involved in the attempt to move the king? Where are your friends? Tell me now, and I need not take you in.'