A Falling Star, page 38
part #3 of Wintercombe Series
He had no idea whether or not he would actually be able to strike the man down in cold blood, and from the sneer on Taylor’s face, he did not consider it very likely either. But if you do try anything, Bram thought grimly, with a glare at his adversary, you never know — you might get an unpleasant surprise.
There was another, waiting for them at Wintercombe. The great wooden gates into the stable yard, never to his knowledge closed since the last war, were barred against them, and a voice Bram recognised shouted through a gap in the dilapidated boards, ‘Do ee go away! We don’t want none of ee here!’
Out of the corner of his eye, Bram saw Taylor fingering his pistol. He called urgently, ‘Pardice! It is Dan Pardice, isn’t it? Don’t you remember me?’
There was a startled pause. Then the voice said dubiously, ‘Be ee Master Bram?’
‘Of course it is, Pardice — and Master Ben, too. We come as friends, and we wouldn’t dream of harming you. Can we speak with Sir Alexander, please?’
A slightly shorter pause, interrupted by running feet. ‘Henry have gone to fetch him for ee. Master Bram. I daren’t open up to ee till he tell me to — I hope as how you’ll understand, sir.’
‘Of course I do,’ said Bram warmly. ‘It’s only sensible, in these times.’ He grinned at the unseen Pardice. ‘You never know what riff-raff might appear at the gate.’
Taylor still had his hand resting lightly, threateningly, on his unfired pistol. With a sudden rush of apprehension, Bram hoped that Alex would come quickly, although he was not looking forward to this second meeting of the day. His cousin had always been a rather remote, intimidating figure, unpredictable of mood, sometimes friendly, at others downright hostile. And Bram, moderate in his own habits, even at Oxford, had heard family gossip about Alex that was, to put it mildly, hair-raising, and culminating in the unheralded appearance of a six-year-old bastard son whose existence no one had previously suspected. Until today, he had not encountered his cousin for years, and despite their earlier, quite friendly conversation, he wondered uneasily if the older man would treat him, in front of the men, as if he were still a callow youth.
There was the sound of a bar being pulled back. Slowly, with much geriatric creaking and groaning, one of the gates opened. Bram saw a cluster of curious faces, and, in the forefront of them, his cousin. Slowly, deliberately, Alex came out of the gate to confront him. Bram was reminded again of how tall he was, the tallest of all the St Barbes, and was glad of the extra altitude of his horse. He smiled rather warily, and held out his hand in greeting.
Alex did not take it. He walked up to the horse’s head and said bluntly, ‘What the devil do you want?’
After their comparatively amicable talk at Midford, this was a little disconcerting. Bram said, trying not to seem anxious, ‘I’m sorry to appear unannounced like this, Cousin, but I’m acting under orders. Captain Hucker has sent me here to ask for your help.’
‘And what makes you think I’ll give it?’ Alex spoke clearly and with hostility, but there was quite a different message in his face, unseen by the members of his household peering curiously out of the gate.
‘I’m asking as your cousin, your kinsman,’ said Bram, hoping urgently that Taylor would not be tempted to do anything rash. ‘Our need is desperate — not for quarters, we can be accommodated well enough in the village, but for food, coin, and above all, horses. And all those things you can readily supply.’
There was a pause. More people were crowding the gate, or peering over the low wall that bounded the courtyard lying in front of the house. Out of the tail of his eye, he saw a little group of women, and amongst them, Louise. She gave him a cheerful wave, and he raised his hand briefly in reply. He thought he saw Phoebe beside her, and the pretty blonde curls must belong to Amy, but there seemed to be no sign of her brother Charles, who would, of course, as a Papist be entirely opposed to the rebel cause.
‘I have no intention of voluntarily giving aid to a pack of rebels,’ said Alex. His eyes met his cousin’s, and he gave a tiny significant jerk of his head. With something of a shock, Bram realised what he meant.
Louise, watching, saw the two men meet, and heard the brief and unpromising exchange of words. It did indeed appear, as Phoebe had said, that Alex would be careful. And although by coming boldly up to the door, Bram had announced his membership of the rebel army to Wintercombe, and thus to all the world, that was his own choice, and while she feared for him, it was impossible not to admire his courage. She herself had seen enough, in France, of how a Papist king could treat his Protestant subjects, not to have a strong feeling of sympathy with the rebels, however foolhardy they might be.
Ben was there, sitting a bay cob she vaguely recalled as being one of Cousin Jan’s, with a slumped, almost somnolent posture, looking eagerly at Wintercombe. She waved at him, and at once his broad flat face creased into a vast grin, and he mouthed her name and flapped his hand as energetically as a child. Lukas, peering over the wall beside her, fingers clinging to the edge like a crab, followed her gaze and said, ‘Is that Cousin Ben?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘He looks strange,’ said the boy, slowly. ‘Is he nice?’
‘Yes, he is, and very good with horses,’ Louise told him, deciding not to attempt any explanation of Ben’s particular difficulties. ‘But he shouldn’t be with the rebels — he can’t fight, it’s wrong to see him in an army.’
‘Why can’t he fight?’ Lukas asked, with that courteous curiosity that was so hard to resist. ‘Is he hurt?’
‘No — it’s just that he wouldn’t know how — he doesn’t like killing people,’ Louise said, feeling herself floundering. ‘Ssh — I want to hear what they’re saying.’
But there was no sound from the two men outside the gate. Bram, rather impressive on his chestnut horse, his abundant hair, darkened and coiling with rainwater, streaming on to his shoulders, held the sorry flag, its colours run and the material much crumpled and shrunken. Alex, by contrast dry and immaculate in the grey suit he often wore for riding, stood in front of him, protecting the house and its inhabitants at his back. For a moment, Louise thought that Bram and his men would turn round and ride away, leaving Wintercombe safe and undefiled.
The little confrontation altered so quickly that she could never be quite sure, afterwards, what had happened. One moment, Alex and Bram and the soldiers were standing as stiff and unmoving as a woodcut, and the next, there was utter confusion. A shot exploded, and the household of Wintercombe, incredulous and bewildered, stood staring. People screamed or shouted, a horse whinnied frantically, and another shot, terrifyingly loud, sent everyone diving for the shelter of wall or gate. Louise, crouched low to the ground, Lukas huddled beside her, wondered in terror if anyone had been hit, and above all, if Alex was safe. The hubbub on the other side of the wall gave her no clue. Cautiously, she unfolded and pulled herself inch by inch up the rough stones of the wall, until she could peer over the top.
‘You fool, get down!’ Phoebe said angrily, but Louise saw at once that the danger, although not past, did not involve her. Bram, controlling his nervous, frightened horse with an effort, had a smoking pistol in his hand. Alex, his back to the gate, was being guarded by a trooper with a most menacing, ruthless expression, and a pistol, two feet long, pointed ominously at his heart. To Louise’s relief, he seemed quite unhurt, even unruffled, and the look on his face was not one of alarm or anger, but amusement. No one appeared to have been hit, so presumably the two shots had gone wide.
‘I told you, we are desperate for horses,’ said Bram, his voice pitched loud to carry to everyone in the courtyard and the stables. ‘And we will take them, whether you wish it or not. Trooper Taylor has already killed one man today, and believe me, Cousin, he’ll have no compunction in killing another. Now, may we have those horses?’
Silence. Louise, looking aghast at Bram, remembered the talkative, endearing idealist whom she had liked so much in Taunton, and could not recognise him in this grim, threatening young man. The trooper glowered at Alex, and took a step closer. Even if Bram were not murderously inclined, and she could not believe that his rebellious fervour would possibly go so far, the man Taylor seemed quite willing, indeed eager, to slaughter Alex in cold blood. Give in, she prayed silently, willing him with her eyes and heart. For God’s sake, let them have whatever they want — nothing is worth your death.
As if he had heard her, he smiled up at Bram, and spread his hands. ‘It seems that for once you hold all the cards, Cousin. There is nothing I can do, is there? I suppose that some half-dozen horses can be found for you, but do not feel tempted to take the bay stallion — he’s barely broken to be ridden, let alone to war, and he’ll kick someone’s head in if mishandled. The saddle horses will be adequate for your needs. Pardice?’
The head groom’s agitated head appeared very cautiously around the gate. ‘Yes, Sir Alexander?’
‘Bring out some horses for these gentlemen, so that they may choose those that are to their liking,’ Alex told him, in tones of some sarcasm. ‘And if I were you, be quick about it — I’ve no wish to be perforated unnecessarily.’
‘Of course, sir,’ Pardice said hastily and vanished. Alex shouted after him. ‘And make sure everyone keeps their heads down — we don’t want any unfortunate accidents.’
‘If you all do as we say, there’ll be no need,’ said Bram. He gestured at the trooper, whose finger still lingered itchily on the trigger. ‘Put your weapon away, Taylor. I will ensure that my cousin does nothing stupid.’
With an insolent, disbelieving stare, the man very slowly returned the pistol to its holster. Louise, who had been watching Bram very closely, saw him relax, and an astonishing possibility leaped into her mind. Taylor was obviously a murderous rogue, who would have liked nothing better than to put a bullet through anyone who crossed him, with very little excuse. But how could Bram be so certain that Alex would not cause him trouble — unless this confrontation had been arranged beforehand?
Appalled and incredulous, she glanced at Phoebe, who had struggled to her feet with the help of Amy and Lukas and had dusted off her gown. Alex’s sister shared his devious nature, after all, and knew him better than anyone. With a sick feeling of dismay, Louise saw that the same idea seemed to have occurred to her too.
The horses, wild-eyed and alarmed, infected by the air of panic, were led out by the two stable boys. The bay Nance, who had once been Louise’s mount, was amongst them, but not, she was relieved to see, her pretty mare Saffron. Each horse was briefly approved by Bram, who still stood guard over Alex, and handed to a trooper. Ben, his face still displaying the bewilderment that had filled him when the pistols were fired, took charge of the skittish Shadow. Louise was surprised to see him amongst the animals whom Pardice was prepared to sacrifice: but the gelding was too difficult a ride for anyone at Wintercombe, save for herself and Alex, and had been intended for sale. It would be something of a two-edged gift to the rebels, she thought wryly, for Shadow, although a quality mount, was by no means suitable for cavalry work. Even the gentle Ben, whispering and stroking and soothing, could not succeed in calming him.
‘This will suffice — we don’t want to strip your stables bare, after all,’ said Bram, with the sudden wide grin that Louise remembered so well, and which convinced her still further that all this was no more real than a play. ‘I thank you, Cousin, for your forbearance and your generosity — it’s a pity that your conscience could not allow you to join our just cause. King Monmouth, and the Protestant religion!’
‘King Monmouth!’ his troopers echoed with spirit, and their cheers rang briskly around Wintercombe’s stone walls and blank windows. Then they turned their horses and, with the six purloined mounts in tow, made their way at a fast trot back down the hill towards the Wellow Lane, and Philip’s Norton.
If it had all been prearranged, and Louise was still by no means certain of it, then both Bram and Alex had played their parts with uncommon skill and conviction. It had failed to convince either her or Phoebe, though they were both Alex’s friends, and would not betray him. But how many of the household, perhaps not so loyal to the master of Wintercombe, had also somehow seen through that elaborate charade?
And, even more to the point, where was Charles?
*
Darkness fell with summer tardiness upon Philip’s Norton, the sun setting a little while after the church clock, comparatively new and maintained with loving pride by the churchwardens, had struck nine. Monmouth had roused himself a little from his despondent mood to order a barricade placed across the Bath road where it entered the village at North Street, and had grunted assent when his senior officers suggested that guards should be posted in the hedges beyond. But it was almost impossible to get further orders from him: instead, he lapsed into a dejected silence, emerging only to rail against the perfidy of the promised five hundred Wiltshire horse, none of whom had yet appeared, and of those officers in his old regiments who, he had hoped, would desert to his side. He sat in the handsome chamber he had taken at the George, staring miserably out at the darkening marketplace below, lost in thought and self-pity, while his officers, aware of their increasingly desperate situation, disposed their forces around the village as best they could, and ensured that they would not be surprised in the night.
The foot were encamped in two fields to the north side of the town, and made themselves as comfortable as possible with fires, makeshift shelters and the food which had been brought by the villagers. Philip’s Norton had always been strongly Protestant, even Puritan, and Parson Pigott was over eighty and unable to give any lead to what little Royalist feeling lurked in his parish. Even Henry Prescott, the landlord of the George and a pillar of the established church — he was on the vestry committee — was so far disaffected as to turn a blind eye to his tapsters, who appropriated several barrels of beer from the cellar and rolled them along the muddy streets to the camp for the refreshment of the soldiers. And he had welcomed the Protestant Duke and his senior officers to his hostelry with apparently genuine warmth, and had supplied a handsome and lavish dinner for all his guests, disclaiming any suggestion of payment.
The horse, fewer and more fortunate than their foot-bound comrades, had found billets in the village, their mounts — including the six obtained, apparently under duress, from Wintercombe — stabled in barn or outhouse or shed or, in the absence of shelter, tied up in gardens and orchards. With commendable aplomb, the few hundred inhabitants of Philip’s Norton fed their uninvited guests, asked eager questions about their adventures, and expressed their good will and good wishes for future success. Bram and Ben, taken in along with several others by a family called Sloper, who inhabited a large and prosperous house just off South Street, found themselves made welcome, given beds and pallets in the warmth of the kitchen, and plied with hot pottage, beer, and three sizzling roasted chickens. After the miseries and exertions of their march from Keynsham, such evidence of kindness was a marvellous restorative for their depressed spirits, and the rapt attention which the servants — and the daughters of the house, who were close in age to Bram’s sisters — gave to them as they spoke nonchalantly of marches, skirmishes and battles, made them all feel like heroes.
But for their leader, no such remedy seemed possible. He remained in the comfortable best chamber above the porch of the George, while below him his officers bustled tirelessly to ensure that their men were settled and well defended. His dinner congealed, almost uneaten, and Master Prescott’s best and strongest brew remained untouched, as he sat silent, apparently contemplating the depths of despair. His steward, William Williams, had given up his vain efforts to cheer him, for nothing, it seemed, could lighten his master’s desperate mood. Not only had the Wiltshire horse failed to appear, and they were the only reason that he had marched in this direction at all, but the news that King James had set a bounty of a thousand pounds on his head had put him in fear of his life. He would eat nothing that Williams had not tasted or prepared, in case it had been poisoned, and he was afraid that some traitor amongst his followers, greedy for gold, might try to shoot him. At last Williams, despite all his efforts, had to acknowledge defeat, and left the Protestant Duke alone in his chamber to bemoan his fate, while he went down to the taproom to vent some of his own despairing fury on Monmouth’s officers, who were likewise growing somewhat impatient with their leader.
Had Williams known it, the danger that his master feared was more real than he himself had suspected. Yet it did not come from within his army, but from outside.
Night settled on Philip’s Norton, crowded with ten times its usual number of inhabitants. The guards at the barricades and along the Bath road peered uneasily into the dank, moonless gloom, and several times a false alarm was sounded as nervous soldiers took fright at owls, sheep, cattle or the movements of their own comrades. But they were looking for an army: it was quite a simple matter for one man, who had heard of the price on Monmouth’s head, to slip across the fields and tracks, through gates and over ditches, to reach the village unseen.
The Duke was quartered in the George, as everyone knew: likewise, it was most likely that he would be ensconced in the Porch chamber, the best in the inn. The man, watching in the shadows by the Market Cross, saw that lights still burned in the window of that chamber, despite the lateness of the hour. It was a desperate stroke, but if it worked, his fortunes would be changed for ever. His pistol was already loaded and primed: he saw a shadow move within the chamber, and a man approached the window, perhaps to draw shutters or curtains.
It was the Duke, his tall figure unmistakable against the light within, a perfect target. The watcher lifted his weapon, cocked it, and aimed with agonised care. For a moment longer Monmouth remained motionless, staring out into the dark, and the assassin had the strange, unsettling illusion that he had seen him, watching and hungry in the night. He cast aside all scruples, and pulled the trigger: and at the precise moment that the flint hit the steel, the Duke turned away.
