A Falling Star, page 53
part #3 of Wintercombe Series
He had lost on the deal when Bram had taken those surplus animals, but the weeks after Sedgemoor saw his shortfall amply compensated: he could have sold each horse several times over, and was able to command substantial prices for poor-quality nags that normally would have been difficult to dispose of, even at a pittance. He would have died rather than admit as much to his mother, but the rebellion had proved to be a classic example of a wind that was not so ill, despite Ben’s tragic end.
He returned from a journey to Street, where he had bought three promising young saddle horses on behalf of a local gentleman, to find four strange animals being led away towards the stables. One, a very handsome bright bay stallion, caught his appreciative eye, and he wondered curiously who the visitors might be.
He hurried inside, without first removing his boots, and heard low voices from the parlour. There was a trail of mud in the hall behind him, and doubtless he would feel the sharp edge of his mother’s tongue later — these days, the least transgression inflamed her temper — not to mention his wife Bathsheba’s silent reproach. But it was too late now. He opened the door of the parlour expectantly.
‘Hullo, Jan,’ said his cousin Alex cheerfully. ‘I hear that you too have been robbed by Monmouth. We have come over to beg, borrow or steal horses from you — that is, if you still have any.’
Jan gave him a weary, rather doubtful smile. Alex, even in the plain dark suit with the silver buttons, was altogether too vivid and dangerous a person to earn his absolute trust, despite the fact that Jan had never seen him anything other than sober, pleasant and capable. The man had a dreadful reputation, both within the family and outside it, and Jan, hardworking, reliable and essentially ordinary, would always be wary of him. Charles, on the other hand, was much more to his liking. He did not have that sharp, ruthless edge that Alex possessed, and although horses were to him no more than a convenient method of transport, Jan usually felt far more at ease with him.
Not this evening, however. Something was seriously wrong, and whatever it was, it hung around Charles like a poisonous cloud. Jan, perplexed, hoped that there would be no unpleasantness. His mother had created more than enough disturbance in the house for the moment, and if his cousins were to come to blows during their visit, his poor wife would be terribly distressed. Bathsheba hated even the mildest argument, and Rachael’s recent outbursts had frequently reduced her to tears.
But Charles said very little, although the way he looked at Alex made Jan, not usually given to flights of fancy, wonder why his cousin was not instantly burned to a cinder. Alex, though, paid Charles no attention whatsoever, and Jan did not know why he had brought him.
Supper was a rather constrained meal, with Rachael stiff and severe at one end of the table, and Jan, trying hard to pretend ease and normality, at the other. All the sympathy and sorrow concerning Ben had already been expressed, but his unspoken invisible presence was a further deterrent to comfort. With some relief, Jan led his two cousins out to the stables once the meal was finished, to view the few horses which he had for sale.
‘How many did you lose?’ Alex asked, as the first, a long-legged brown gelding of suspect soundness, was led out by one of the stable lads.
Jan eyed the horse dubiously. It was one of his maxims never to sell to a friend or a relative any animal that was less than satisfactory, even if accompanied by a detailed catalogue of its faults. He said, ‘I’d avoid that one, if I were you. I doubt it’d stand more than the lightest weight on its back. How many did I lose? Seven, Cousin Bram had from me, although he did at least pay me something for them. Do I understand that you lost some to him as well?’
‘I did — although no money changed hands,’ said Alex. He watched as the gelding was trotted round the yard. ‘You’re right — that beast favours its off-fore. Sell it to someone you dislike.’
‘You know I wouldn’t do that,’ Jan said. ‘This may sound strange, from a horse-dealer, but I do try to be honest in my business transactions.’
‘Really? Then you must be unique in England, if not the world,’ Alex said, grinning. ‘Rest assured, Jan, I shall not deprive you of such a superlative animal. What else have you got?’
‘You may mock,’ said his cousin rather stiffly, as the brown was led away, ‘but my honesty has served me well, this past week or so. Your position probably protects you from suspicion, but hereabouts, anyone who so much as fluttered their eyelashes at Monmouth is liable to be accused of treason. All the old grudges and feuds have been brought into the open, and spite rules: anyone who has slighted or cheated or wronged their neighbour runs the risk of denunciation, even on the most flimsy excuse — or, sometimes, so I’ve heard, on the basis of barefaced lies.’
A much more likely animal had been led out, a fiery young chestnut filly, barely backed or broken as yet, still very lightly built, but with the promise of speed in the long legs and a spirited intelligence in the fine-boned, noble head.
‘Now that’s a much better prospect,’ said Alex. He turned to Charles, standing several feet away from him, as if to be any closer was to be tainted. ‘What do you think of her?’
His cousin’s voice was stiff, and devoid of any warmth. ‘She seems fine enough.’
‘She’ll need a great deal of schooling, of course,’ Jan pointed out. ‘But she’ll make a fine saddle horse in a year or so, though I doubt she’ll ever be up to your weight. A ride for a competent lady, perhaps? Would Cousin Louise like her?’
‘She still has that yellow dun mare — at least Bram did not take her, with all the rest,’ Alex said. He smiled, and Charles could guess what he was thinking, even if Jan had no idea. ‘But I’m sure I can find some use for this one, and if nothing else, she’ll make an excellent brood mare. What do you want for her, Jan?’
The two men haggled over a price with good-natured chaffing, and Charles marvelled silently that Jan, who admittedly, despite his St Barbe blood, was hardly more than a simple farmer, seemed to have no perception at all of Alex’s true nature. Could he not discern that the affable manner, the smile and the friendly face concealed a heart as black and evil and immoral as any Judas?
The next horse, an older, stouter gelding of distinctly somnolent demeanour, seemed to exercise Alex’s interest. He walked forward to examine the animal’s teeth, and then lifted each hoof in turn for inspection. Charles found himself hoping that one of the large, hairy feet would strike out, perhaps with fatal consequences, but was disappointed.
‘A sound, solid sort of beast,’ Jan was saying. ‘It won’t win any races, but it’ll keep up a steady pace all day without tiring — a good ride for servants or messengers.’
‘Exactly the kind I’m looking for,’ Alex said, running a hand down the gelding’s thick neck. ‘Young Bram took all of that sort I had, and I doubt they were much use to him. From all accounts, Monmouth’s cavalry was the main reason for his failure — although to blame them is a little unfair, you must know well enough how difficult it is to train horses for war, in such circumstances, and with so little time at your disposal. When I saw then in action at Norton Fight, they couldn’t even bring their mounts to face pistol shot, let alone cannonfire.’
Charles, standing still and forgotten in the shadows, stiffened. He had assumed that Alex had spent the day of the battle, as he had stated, drinking in the George, and so likely was this tale that he had never thought to question it. But if he had indeed been at the inn, how could he have seen the defects of Monmouth’s cavalry for himself?
A wild idea came to him then, words jostling in his head: treason, the hidden pamphlets, the commandeered horses and above all the fact that his cousin had undoubtedly been much closer to the action, that day in the village several weeks ago, than he had claimed — a fact acutely suspicious in itself.
Alex’s voice had dropped very low, but, straining his ears, he could still make out most of his words. ‘So, they had half a dozen of my less valuable horses — my groom, Pardice, made sure they didn’t take any quality animals, that would be carrying devotion to the cause altogether too far. Nor did he make any offer of payment.’
Jan, his voice rather more distinct, sucked in his breath sharply. ‘I trust you did not appear to give them willingly?’
Alex laughed. ‘Hardly. I had some exceedingly villainous-looking rogue pointing a loaded pistol straight at me, and there’s no arguing with such a forceful means of persuasion. Moreover, nine-tenths of my household were eager witnesses. No, they may be keen to pin a charge of treason on me, for all my past sins, but since returning from Holland my life has been — almost — blameless. And that particular charge has not a hope of success.’
‘I sincerely hope not,’ said Jan. ‘In these times, even the innocent or the unlucky are in danger, as much as the guilty. I should be careful, Cousin — you never know who might bear a grudge.’
Alex laughed, a carefree, reckless sound. ‘No, indeed — but since in this matter I am as guilt-free as a new-born babe, why should I waste my life worrying?’
It was as well that he did not see Charles’s face in the dusk, for the triumph written on it would have told him, with wordless eloquence, that one person’s grudge, at least, could not be dismissed so lightly.
That night, Charles lay exultant in his narrow bed under the eaves of Longleaze, his mind a ferment of activity. Only yesterday, at this time, he had been cast into the depths of despair and loathing, and his impotent longing for revenge, the more complete and destructive the better, had almost bereft him of any sleep. And now God, through the unwitting agency of Cousin Jan, had put the instrument of vengeance into his hands. He had no doubt that a magistrate, eager to root out rebellion and sedition, would listen to him, and to the tale he would tell. Taken by themselves, the separate facts seemed trivial, easily explained away. The proscribed, hidden pamphlets; Bram’s seizure of the horses (had any others in the village been taken? He would have to find out); Alex’s past, his association years ago with that rogue Shaftesbury, and the republicans, and the Green Ribbon Club, dedicated to the overthrow of popery and the exclusion of the Duke of York from the throne; and, most mysteriously and possibly most damning of all, the extent of his involvement in the fighting at Philip’s Norton. Alex’s words seemed to imply that he had seen some of the battle at close quarters: and if his actions that day had been innocent, why lie about it, and put around the tale that he had spent the day getting drunk at the George?
Faced with that list, Charles had no doubt that any loyal Justice would conclude that Sir Alexander St Barbe was ripe for further investigation, at the very least. An enticing prospect opened up in his mind: Alex accused of treason, his guilt proved beyond all doubt (a few well-chosen interviews with villagers and captured rebels should confirm the facts), and the inevitable but well-deserved consequence of his sins. And then…what else could King James do but reward his fellow-Catholic, who had so loyally brought the activities of this vicious traitor to the attention of the authorities, with the title and estate that were rightfully his?
For a moment longer, he was intoxicated with the thought that in a few months’ time he might be Sir Charles St Barbe, fifth baronet, owner of Wintercombe, heritor of wealth, power, position and influence…all he had ever wanted from life. There would be no need to leave his beloved Wintercombe, to live in that poky little house in Bath. Amy, his lovely sister, would have the jewels and gowns her beauty deserved, and a splendid marriage, and his mother would be provided with lavish comfort for the rest of her life.
And Louise…surely, when the dreadful truth about Alex was revealed, she would realise how terribly she had been deceived and corrupted. Surely she would repent of her wanton, reckless behaviour. She would come to look upon Charles once more as her friend, and perhaps, in time, for he still loved her, still desired her, despite the loss of her innocence, he would take her for his wife and found his own dynasty at Wintercombe…
But his conscience, the voice of God or of reason, pointed out, quietly, the true reason why he wished to denounce Alex. His motive was not pure and altruistic. He was a Papist, and loyal to his religion and to the King, but that was almost irrelevant. He wanted vengeance, nothing more nor less; and, after his cousin’s destruction, to enjoy everything that Alex had possessed, and which his own sense of justice, not to mention his mother’s revelations concerning his cousin’s birth, had encouraged him to consider his by right.
The edict of the last Commandment rose in his mind: ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife…nor anything that is thy neighbour’s.’ Undeniably, he coveted Alex’s house, his wealth, his position, his lover, and everything that was his: and his secret envy had grown and festered, over the past few months, fuelled by his cousin’s contemptuous attitude and despicable behaviour, until it had become the poisonous mainspring of his life.
But was such jealousy, however justified, a valid reason for the betrayal of his own cousin, who had treated him abominably, but who had also, he had to acknowledge, shown some generosity in the matter of the Abbey Green house? To many, it would seem at best ungrateful, at worst, a terrible betrayal of a man who was, after all, his own kin.
But of course, he was not. If Bab had told him the truth, then Alex could not be the legitimate son and heir of Sir Nathaniel, but the nameless bastard of his mother’s lover. And if Alex was not a true St Barbe, then he was not, either, the rightful owner of Wintercombe.
He lay in the darkness, his mind at war, his conscience protesting that what he was considering was wrong, prompted by malice and envy, his heart urging action, the irrevocable deed that would end Alex’s ruthless domination of his life, once and for all and for ever.
And when sleep finally claimed him, late into the night, he still had not resolved what he would do, one way or the other.
23
‘Teach rebels to obey’
At the end of August, 1685, six weeks after the battle at Sedgemoor, and almost as long after the gruesomely botched execution of James Scott, once called Duke of Monmouth, who had aspired to the throne of England, retribution, in the person of the Lord Chief Justice, George Jeffreys, descended upon the rebellious counties of the West Country.
It was a burden that Jeffreys had, initially, been minded to refuse. He had spent the summer taking the waters at Tunbridge Wells, in a vain attempt to cure his agonising kidney stones, and had asked for the less arduous home circuit, around London. But despite the extra work involved on the western circuit — for the Summer Assizes had been cancelled because of the rebellion — the Lord Chief Justice agreed to go. He was already high in the King’s favour, and to prosecute these rebels with his customary zeal and despatch would undoubtedly raise him still higher, perhaps even as far as the position of Lord Chancellor, which he had long coveted.
The Grand Juries and constables of Somerset, Dorset and Wiltshire had been busy, and over two thousand people had either been named as rebels, or were languishing in prison, awaiting their fate. To deal adequately with this vast number of accused, five judges had been appointed to assist Jeffreys in his task. And a swarm of agents, pardonmongers and parasites descended upon the gaols, to interrogate the unfortunates held within. Obviously, with so many to be tried, some way of speeding up the proceedings must be found. If large numbers pleaded not guilty, the trials could take months, even years. So in each prison, agents and clerks took the necessary details, and used all their powers to persuade the recalcitrant to plead guilty, and so save the courts’ time.
Since many of the prisoners, especially those held immediately after the battle, had actually been taken in arms, most had already elected to acknowledge their guilt, and throw themselves on the mercy of the judges. But the reputation of the Lord Chief Justice was not, as yet, widely known in the West Country: and besides, despite the swift execution of their leader, many of the rank and file rebels were confident that the authorities would deal with them comparatively leniently.
Late in August, Jeffreys, with his assistants, left London to travel the western circuit. He stopped first at Winchester, where amongst the routine cases of murder, felony and rape, was scheduled his first treason trial, that of Dame Alice Lisle.
Dame Alice was an elderly lady of good family, a republican past (her late husband had sat in judgement on Charles I), and waning faculties. She had harboured two of Monmouth’s chief adherents after the battle, and claimed that they were old friends and she had not known of their part in the rebellion. Her defence was of no avail: her status and history had already marked her out for retribution, for the King was determined that the very few gentry who had dared to support Monmouth should be singled out for exemplary punishment. Dame Alice was sentenced to be burnt at the stake, and only the horrified pleas of her friends and the local clergy persuaded the King to commute the sentence. The old lady, so deaf and failing that she seemed at times not to understand what was happening to her, was beheaded at Winchester, on the second of September.
