Exchange of Love, page 14
The two men stared at each other with naked aggression. Unseen by either of them, Edward’s men cocked their pistols, following Phil’s example. The prince’s small retinue had hands to their swords.
“I would teach you manners but I am a prince. I cannot brawl with a common oaf.”
“And, sire, you are too important for the king’s cause,” said a courtier as he tried to stand between Edward and the prince.
“Too important for parliament’s cause,” said Edward with cold sarcasm. “Another heroic victory like this and our king will have scarce a man to fight for him.”
Prince Rupert angrily grabbed for his sword but the courtier restrained him. Now several men had forced their way between the two antagonists.
“That’s right, boy,” said Edward coldly, addressing the courtier. “Protect your master.” All the despair at the wasted lives; the senseless separation from Penny… his bitterness was all building within him. But would killing Rupert ease that ache?
The sound of a pistol shot resounded around the stable yard. Edward and Rupert leapt apart.
“Sorry, sir,” shouted Phil. “Me pistol discharged his-self.” Then, to his men, “Hold your weapons. No attack.”
It has taken a farm boy from the marshes to bring some sense to his betters, thought Edward. “Good day, my prince,” he said with a bow. “I look forward to continuing our discussion when this war is won.”
Rupert shrugged off the restraining hands. “I will call you to account for this, Peverell,” came his bitter retort.
“And I look forward to it with pleasure,” Edward replied, pleased to see that Prince Maurice and Lord Hopton had now arrived.
“God speed, Peverell,” roared Hopton, oblivious to the anger between Edward and Rupert. “Get that foundry of yours working on the muskets – we need every one.”
Poor Hopton, thought Edward as he urged his mount forward. Since his hearing loss, Hopton missed most of what was happening. Edward could only hope Prince Maurice would be able to calm his brother down. Two hundred guns from Edward’s foundry would buy a lot of tolerance – forgiveness, even.
“I thank you, Phil,” he said as they rode out onto the open road. “It’s good you keep a cool head.”
“I was more afraid you would have a stretched neck,” replied Phil grimly. “He is an evil man, given to act in haste.”
“And would you have shot down a royal prince?” asked Edward, smiling.
“Any time, sir. He had but five popinjays to protect him while we had twelve trained men. I have no allegiance to foreign princes!”
“That is a problem for our whole army,” mused Edward. “The men do not like Prince Rupert in command, far less the way he throws lives away on his madcap attacks.”
As they rode towards Bath, Edward rehearsed in his mind what he would say to Penny. How far should he try to explain? How far to grovel and plead? He could be lying in Nick Stanning’s cold grave with no chance for… For what? Forgiveness? Would things ever be the same between them? Despair sank into him. Perhaps he and Penny had been too carefree, too absorbed in their passion to see the true meaning of—
“I need to speak to you, sir,” said Phil quietly, as the horses ambled easily along the bridleway.
Edward was half aware that the rest of the troops had fallen back a furlong behind, no doubt at Phil’s bidding. “Sorry, Phil, I was lost in a black reverie,” replied Edward. “Is this a serious matter?”
“Very serious,” replied Phil. There was a long pause and then, abandoning all attempts at subtlety, he blurted out, “I wish to leave your service. And I want to take Lady Peverell’s maid, Carol, with me.”
Edward turned in the saddle to stare at Phil. “Why? Are you treated badly? … I did not know that you and Carol were—”
“We are very careful.” He suppressed a smile. “Very careful in all things. We have had an understanding for nearly two years.”
“My congratulations, Phil. She is a good maid – sorry – a good woman, I mean.” Edward was saying the right things but felt many questions were unanswered. “Why ask my permission? You should ask her father!”
“I have. He is delighted.”
A daughter off his hands, thought Edward.
“But Carol’s father says times are difficult for you with this futile war,” continued Phil. “And my own father says I should not leave when you are in need. You have been good to us all.”
“Then why do you want to leave, Phil?”
“It’s all this fighting and killing. It’s not right. And the war’s already lost, is it not? So many killed at Bristol, and now Prince Rupert wants to attack Gloucester and Lyme. We’ll have no men left. I do not want to die for a wasted cause.”
“But King Charles is our rightful ruler.”
“I know nowt of Kings or of Parliamentarians. They are all just rich men taxing the poor.”
Edward was shocked; he had assumed Phil Howells was loyal to the king. He sat stunned in the saddle, allowing the horse to walk on as Phil continued.
“I’ve fought in two battles out of loyalty to you, but it’s enough. If the mistress takes Carol to Suffolk, I may never see her again.”
As I may never see Penny, thought Edward.
“So married or not, I will take Carol up to the Fen country in Norfolk. It’s similar to the Somerset Levels I believe, and we can hide away from the war.”
“It’s all held by parliament there, Phil.”
“I know. But behind their lines it is said to be safe for honest, God-fearing folk. I’ve killed four men in battle and hanged two others. I don’t blame you for the hangings, but I’ve finished with all the killing.”
In silence Edward mulled Phil’s words over. The sentiments were not far from his own, but he was a gentleman sworn to the king – he would not run off to France or Italy, or even Norfolk. Penny might have already gone.
“I am sorry I questioned your intent, Phil. You are not some bondsman who I can place under orders. If Carol goes with you freely—”
“No fear of that. The mistress has been kind to her but—”
“She needs her own life – with you,” Edward cut in. “We will both miss you and Carol, but we wish you well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Just one request: if possible, do not fight for parliament. I should hate us to meet on the field of battle.” Edward wiped his face to hide his confusion at the swift turn of events in his personal life. God, the whole world was crumbling around him.
“I should hate to meet you in battle, sir,” said Phil. “You ride and shoot better than I.”
Edward hardly noticed how they reached Bath, traversed its reeking dung-covered streets, and sought out the house they had rented. Uncharacteristically, he dithered outside, hesitating to ride into the courtyard and seek out Penny. But Penny was not in the rented house, nor at the inn to which she had fled after Edward’s confession. Edward dispersed his men and set out to Peverell House with Phil. He had no news of Penny and she had left no message.
A fast ride to Peverell House and his worst fears were confirmed. Richard York, the butler, explained that the mistress had arranged for her belongings to be taken in a cart to Calne where she would hire a carriage and escort for Oxford. From there, she would seek a royal pass to allow her to go on to her father’s house in Bury St Edmunds.
“And you let her go?” shouted Edward, as he read Penny’s short note.
“How would I stop her, sir? Bundle her up in a sheet and imprison her in your rooms? I had no word from you.”
“I know, I know. Pardon, Richard. I am concerned for her safety. Did she travel alone?”
“Carol the maid is with her, and Roger the bailiff went with her to Calne to help with arrangements. She would not have him leave the estate for longer.”
“Phil, back to the saddle. We are for Calne, and then Oxford.”
“The mistress and Carol will return?” Phil questioned, disturbed at the news.
“I do not know.” Edward felt near to tears. All the hopes and plans they had together, all their love killed off by one transgression. “The world is turned upside down, Phil. I have fallen off it. I don’t know when—” His voice petered out in despair.
“To Calne, sir?”
“Yes, then Oxford, if needs be. If they want to go on to Suffolk you can escort them to Bury and then take Carol off to the Fens.”
Halfway or more to Calne they spotted a single rider coming towards them at a reckless gallop that would soon exhaust the horse. Seeing them, the rider slowed for a moment, then continued on.
“Drawing a pistol, I lay,” said Phil.
“But we are two to one. Pull over to the right, I go left, and he can pass between us. My God, it’s Penny. Wait here, Phil.” Gathering his reins, Edward set off towards her. “Penny!” he shouted, spurring his horse into a gallop. “It’s Edward!” She rode bolt upright as usual, reins loose in her right hand, pistol in the left . “Don’t shoot. It’s me, Edward!”
Trying to passionately embrace while on separate horses was never going to succeed and ended with them both on the ground clutching each other in a babble of questions.
“Are you all right, darling? What has happened? How do you come here?”
Phil rushed up to them. “Where’s Carol?” he shouted hoarsely. “What has happened?”
“Phil?” asked Penny, surprised. “Why so forward?”
“Phil is Carol’s lover. He is afraid—”
“She has come to no harm, Phil. She is in Calne with our bags while I ride back to Peverell for assistance. She is safe enough. But do go on to the Raven’s Nest.” She smiled at Edward and then said to Phil, “She is much shocked. Comfort her until tomorrow. I have no need of her tonight.” And to Edward coyly, “Do I?”
“I sincerely hope not!”
CHAPTER 20
After their hectic time looking after Charlie and Bonnie for the weekend, John and Judith had arranged a midweek walking break in Dartmoor. The holiday didn’t start well, and John believed it had every potential to get worse. An accident on the M5 delayed their arrival at the Plume of Feathers campsite on Dartmoor, and by the time their tents were pitched the pub was overflowing with other campers, meaning they would be waiting a while to order, let alone eat. The overcrowding and potential long delay seemed to have resurrected Judith’s Girl Guiding memories, and she gleefully offered to rustle up an evening meal on a disposable barbecue.
This, thought John, surveying his plate grimly, is survival cooking at its worst. Curried beans and boil-in-the-bag rice.
As he tried to dilute the ferociously spiced beans with half-cooked rice, his concern shifted to the conflicting weather forecasts. The BBC said heavy rain as the day progressed, but a local, specialist site indicated overcast cloud with sporadic drizzle. He hadn’t walked Dartmoor in any serious way and was concerned they might face the mists, mires and moving paths so often shown in old films.
Judith professed to be an expert, having completed the Ten Tors expedition and her Duke of Edinburgh Award. She had planned a series of walks, printing out ordnance survey maps for her waterproof map carrier. This seemed a bit primitive to John, so he took the precaution of programming the route finder app on his smartphone with a number of key way points. The names sounded evocative: Nun’s Cross, Fox Tor, Haytor. The distances were less encouraging: about nineteen kilometres for the following day, much of it over rough ground. This was not going to be a trivial walk.
He awoke the next morning cold, stiff and disorientated, struggling against his sleeping bag.
“Christ, five thirty!” he swore under his breath.
“You OK?” came Judith’s voice. She was up and out of her own tent and looked in on him, grinning. “What’s up?” she asked. “Sounded as if you were having a nightmare.”
He forced himself awake. “I was. Cold and in agony from this stupid sleeping bag, shut in a coffin-sized tent!”
“Baby, I thought you liked walking holidays?”
“I do, somewhere warm with a hotel and hot meal at the end of the day.” He paused. He didn’t want to moan and he had agreed to camp when the other options were full. “Just joking. This will be a good day, ideal weather.”
“Liar! Tea’s brewed. Get dressed and join me?”
“I quite like tea in bed.”
“I know,” she said, “and it usually gets cold.”
“Only because you distract me.”
“Not this morning!”
John had persuaded her to wait until the bunkhouse café opened for cooked breakfasts at seven a.m., and the day took on a decidedly better turn after a massive fry-up. Although the cloud hung low, it was quite warm, and they enjoyed the walking. The track was easy to follow due-south to Nun’s Cross, but when they arrived John did take the opportunity to check his GPS app. Judith seemed amused.
“You don’t rely on that, do you?” she asked. “Not out in the wilds.”
“Why not? It’s accurate to a few metres and gives actual position.”
“Provided you get a phone signal. It’s not a true GPS that takes data from satellites.”
“Don’t think that’s a problem,” he replied, pointing back to the massive communication mast that soared up from North Hessary Tor and overshadowed the whole area.
“I prefer a simple compass – it can’t go wrong. Well, unless there are anomalies, like ferrous ore deposits over at Ryder’s Hill.”
“I remember seeing that effect near a hill fort on the Cotswold Way,” agreed John. “Our outdoor pursuits master used it to demonstrate that you should never totally rely on one device.”
“So, you rely on one app?”
“No, I’ve got a Judith, who has a map and compass.”
They soon passed Nun’s Cross and the ford, and began heading down the path towards Fox Tor.
“Could veer across to Craven Hill since we’re making good time?” Judith suggested, gesturing towards the slowly ascending dark hill to their left. “It’s just a bit higher than most points around here and would give us a good view of South Moor.”
“Worth the climb?”
“Always is. We should see Sheep’s Tor, possibly down to Plymouth.”
The half-mile ascent was surprisingly hard work with no defined path; an indication of the walking to come. Still, as Judith had predicted, the climb was well worth the effort, despite the partly obscured sun casting the hills and tors in a dingy light. John couldn’t really discern the landmark Judith was pointing out. At her suggestion they continued further south to view the prehistoric rows of stones, before returning to Craven Hill.
“When it’s like this, I feel you get more of the spirit of Dartmoor than when it’s bright sunshine,” Judith remarked.
“Do you prefer full-on rain or mist?” John joked, hugging her playfully.
They had only been walking for a few hours but agreed to rest for a bit and take in the view. John had a small shockproof water-resistant camera, ideal to snap a picture of Judith against the backdrop of Dartmoor.
“Do you ever look at your pictures once you get back?” she asked, squinting to make out the picture of herself on the view-screen.
“Oh yeah, when I download them to the computer.”
“A thousand and one miscellaneous pics.”
“All filed and catalogued for each year. This one will be in both the ‘walking’ file and the ‘lovely Judith’ file, along with the ones from the hidden webcam in my bedroom,” John winked, looking over at Judith and hoping for a reaction.
She blushed and swatted at him with the back of her hand. “You sod! Is that true?”
“No, no, just a joke. So far I have about three pics of you, all fully clothed and decent.”
“Thank God for that. You had me for a minute there.”
They were amazed how relaxed and happy they were, as if they had been together for years, settling into an easy, fond silence as they sat beside one another. Was it the openness of the sky with bright purple heather below? It truly was a breathtaking place.
Judith pointed out their route and the contrast between the purple heather and the yellow flowered gorse. John tried several photographs, but the light was too difficult for his simple camera. When he stood up to take a shot to the south, he was shocked to see all the lower land to the edge of the moor was white with mist. Miles away, but still alarming.
“It’s low-lying stuff,” said Judith, confidently.
“All the same, I think we should get back on a defined path,” John suggested.
“I don’t think it will be too bad,” she pondered. “We can head towards Fox Tor by sight and I can measure the bearing, then we can follow a route back to the minor road if the mist comes down.”
The route to Fox Tor was not easy, but at least it was clear-cut. John cast frequent glances behind and was reassured that the way back to the dark dome of Craven Hill was still clear. They crossed the path that Judith pointed out and came to the clump of rocks that was labelled Fox Tor on the map.
When the mist did come down on them it was hideously quick. It seemed to boil off the hill and sweep along remorselessly to envelop them, cutting visibility to less than twenty-five metres. It was cold and damp and shut out sound until the quiet became a sound of its own.
“So much for the forecast,” Judith muttered. “I think it’s time for plan B.”
“Agreed,” said John. “We lost some time and direction with the deviation, but the GPS has reset and shows a direction almost due north.”
“I’m not sure about pushing on that way,” said Judith. “There’s no path – well, not much of one. I’d prefer to go back up the slope until we cross the Whiteworks path and then follow on to the road.”
After a brief discussion, Judith conceded that going back would be an even greater waste of time.
“Are you sure this is the path we need, John? It’s not on the map.”
“Quite a lot of them aren’t,” he replied. “Let’s give it a go for five minutes and then come back here if there’s a problem.”
