Kitabı oku: «Reunited At The King's Court»

Prologue

Arlette Dryden had been a motherless child when her father and brother took up their swords in support of the Royalist cause, leaving her alone at Mayfield Hall in Oxfordshire in the care of loyal servants. The news of a fresh battle having been fought between Cromwell’s army and Royalists at Worcester meant that Arlette, now thirteen years old, had made it her mission to hide her father’s horse, his precious Hector. A year before, the fine, huge, spirited horse had carried him in battle and brought him home wounded from the Battle of Dunbar, never to take up his sword again. Hector was conspicuous in the paddock. She would have to put him out of sight should marauding soldiers from Worcester come their way.

If passing strangers could be believed, having defeated the Royalists, the Roundheads now posed impending danger, so Blanche, the housekeeper, had told Arlette not to leave the house. She had promised she wouldn’t, but, unable to bear the thought of Hector alone and vulnerable in the paddock, with the thought of a Roundhead sitting on his back abhorrent to her, Arlette knew she must defy Blanche.

Panting and breathless by the time she reached the paddock, which stood away from the house, she had the satisfaction of seeing Hector nibbling the grass. Pleased to see her, the stallion nickered and tossed his black mane, arching his neck. She dared not risk taking him to the stables at the back of the house. They had once housed some fine horseflesh, but the horses had gone long since to serve the Royalist cause. Instead she guided him to a corner of the paddock where a hut was almost invisible behind a clump of overgrown laurel bushes. Urging him inside, where there was hay and water, then petting him and whispering in his ear that he had to be quiet, she went out, closing the door securely, hoping he would be safe.

Hurrying back to the house, she hoped that Blanche had not noticed her absence. With only a vague memory of her mother, who had died giving birth to her sister when Arlette had been barely two years old, and the newborn not having survived, either, Blanche had always been there for her and she loved her dearly. Arlette knew little about her mother. She had asked about her often and found it strange that no one, not even her father, would speak of her. They always side-stepped her questions and quickly talked of other matters. Perhaps, she thought—for it was the only explanation she could think of—her father had loved her mother so much that it was difficult for him to speak of her.

Besides, her father had enough worries. In the past, due to her father’s careful management, the estate had prospered, but the enormous fines imposed by Parliament on Royalists during the wars had almost crippled them. Any day now her father expected to be turned out of Mayfield Hall and the estate sequestered, which had happened to Royalist estates all over the country.

As she glanced towards the orchard, her attention was caught by a figure standing in the shelter of the pear trees watching the house. Cautiously she made her way to where he stood, looking at him with curiosity. He was young—scarcely more than a youth—perhaps seventeen or eighteen years of age. His clothes were stained and torn, his face streaked with sweat and grime and strained with exhaustion. An unmistakable smell of powder clung to his clothes. There was a bleakness to his darkly circled eyes. Dried blood stained the shoulder of his doublet.

The light from the sun was shining full on his face, and the sight of him caused Arlette a certain amount of unease. Where had he come from? she wondered. Holding her breath, she took in the beauty of him. It did not seem credible that a man could be so beautiful. He was unquestionably the most handsome male she had ever seen, with fine, clear-cut features that might have been described as feminine in their perfection but for the firmness of his mouth and strong chin. His dark brown hair, blackened by gunpowder and soaked in sweat, was clipped to just below his ears. He had strong shoulders under his dark blue doublet. His eyes were a vibrant blue that were normally filled with warmth and charm, but today burned bright with all he had done and seen with the besieged Royalists in Worcester. There was something about him that seemed familiar.

‘Who are you? I sense that we have met before.’

‘My name is William—William Latham—the son of Lord Robert Latham of Arlington Court in Warwickshire.’ His voice was rich and polished and had the tone of a gentleman. ‘This is the house of Sir Isaac Dryden?’

Arlette nodded. His name was familiar to her. He was a friend of her brother Thomas. ‘He is my father. Have you been at Worcester? We were told there is a battle raging.’

He nodded, his expression grave. ‘That is correct. It is over now and the King defeated. I was there. I—have news for your father.’

Arlette stared at him, her instinct telling her all was not well with Thomas. ‘Is it Thomas?’ she ventured to ask, fearful of what he might say. ‘My name is Arlette. Thomas is my brother. He is with the King’s army.’

‘I know. We fought together.’

‘I remember Thomas speaking of you.’

He nodded. ‘We were at school together. I am here at his request. I must tell you that there is a need for haste. Will you take me to your father?’

She nodded. ‘He is anxious for news of Thomas. You look exhausted—and you’re wounded.’ She noticed how he held his shoulder.

He breathed deeply. ‘It’s not easy to run for your life with a sword wound.’

‘Don’t you have a horse?’

‘I did. Due to the wounds inflicted on him at Worcester, I had to abandon him some miles back.’

Tilting her head to one side she looked at him gravely. ‘Is there someone to look after him?’

He nodded. ‘I met a kindly farmer who promised me he would take care of him. Now, I don’t wish to bring trouble to your house so we must hurry. The countryside will very soon be crawling with Roundheads searching for fugitives from the battle. Anyone found harbouring them will be granted no quarter.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll take you to my father right away—but I must tell you that he is very weak. It is thought that he will not last much longer,’ she told him in a small voice.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘He was wounded at Dunbar last September. He managed to make it back, but he has not left his bed since. Come, I will take you to him. He will be eager to hear what you have to say.’

Eighteen-year-old William tried to keep up with her as, light of foot, she sped ahead of him. An image of his stricken horse and the bullet with which he had put it out of its misery had been what he considered to be a humane kindness. The horse had served him well and it had been a hard thing for him to do. It was not something he could share with this innocent child. He had not lied when he had told her about the farmer. The man, a Royalist sympathiser and knowing William was trying to make good his escape from the Roundheads, had agreed to dispose of the horse.

Mayfield Hall was a fine old house. The red brick glowed warmly beneath the sun, the diamond-paned windows winking in the light. They entered through the heavy oak doors and William’s boots echoed on the floorboards as he walked through the large baronial hall. Looking around him, he saw that, like many Royalist houses throughout the land, the war had left its scars. Fine furniture showed signs of misuse. Panelling and wainscoting had been ripped from the walls. Windows had been broken and left unrepaired. He made no comment as he followed in Arlette’s wake.

After climbing the wide oak staircase to the upper floor he followed her along a landing where she came to a stop before a door. William looked down at her, aware of her concern. She was a child, very young—he was to learn later that she was thirteen years old. In her blue dress she looked disarmingly like some little woodland nymph. There was a strange intensity in her enormous eyes with their liquid depths, which were a cross between green and blue, and her curly mop of hair had the brilliance of sunlight.

‘Please wait here a moment. I’ll go and tell him he has a visitor.’

William did as she asked, hearing muted voices from behind the closed door. After a moment she returned.

‘When my father left for Scotland he was a fine upstanding man. Please do not be alarmed by his appearance. His suffering has taken its toll on him.’

William entered the room where Sir Isaac Dryden lay abed. It had the smell of a sick room and vials of medicines and pots of salve littered the surface of a dresser. Despite the girl’s warning he found it hard to hide his shock at the appearance of Sir Isaac Dryden. He was painfully thin. Against the pillows his flesh was waxen and clung to the bones of his face. But the eyes that studied him were sharp and shrewd and bright with intelligence. William moved close to the bed and gave a formal bow. There was no mistaking the gravity of the moment.

‘My daughter informs me that you are William Latham—your family home is Arlington Court in Warwickshire, which I recall Thomas telling me about.’

‘That is correct.’

‘Welcome to Mayfield Hall. You are the son of Lord Robert Latham, I believe.’

William nodded. ‘He was killed during the siege at Colchester in forty-eight.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I knew him well. He was a fine man.’

‘Yes—yes, he was.’

‘It cannot have been easy for you coming here. News has reached us of the battle at Worcester and that it ended in a bloody defeat for the Royalists.’

‘The battle was doomed before it began.’

‘My son—Thomas...?’

‘Was taken prisoner.’

A great relief swept over Sir Isaac. ‘Thank the Lord. You, too, have survived the battle and I imagine you are impatient to put as much distance between you and the victors as you can.’

A fit of coughing rendered him speechless and left him exhausted against the pillows. Arlette moved closer to the bed, her young face filled with concern.

‘Father, you will tire yourself. You must rest.’

The trace of a thin smile touched the old man’s lips. ‘I’ll have plenty of rest soon, Arlette.’ He gave another hollow cough and when it was over he looked at his visitor. ‘I am dying, sir—I’ve been dying ever since I was wounded at Dunbar. I have prayed the good Lord in his wisdom would keep me alive until my son came home. I see now that is not to be.’ He shook his head despondently. ‘Thomas was a scholar. He had no enthusiasm for soldiering.’ His eyes met those of the young visitor with perfect understanding. ‘Tell me what happened to him?’

William met his eyes and read his need to know. ‘He fares better than most—but his treatment in the hands of his captors will be harsh.’ Glancing sideways at the girl standing across the bed, he saw pain fill her eyes.

‘The war has dealt ill with those loyal to the King,’ Sir Isaac murmured quietly, ‘my own family having lost brothers and nephews at one battle or another. My daughter Hester lives in London—she married a Parliament man—a mercer. The marriage caused a bitter divide between us. Arlette and my son are all I have left. May the Lord spare them.’ His skeletal hand reached out to touch his daughter’s cheek with a reverence that did not go unnoticed by William. ‘So—tell me. Where is Thomas now?’

‘We were both taken prisoner—along with ten thousand others. We were herded into the cathedral from where we were to be marched to London. I was fortunate. In the mayhem that ensued after the battle I managed to escape.’

Sir Isaac digested this calmly. ‘How was Thomas? Was he wounded?’

‘No—merely exhausted and hungry—but his spirit remains high. Food was scarce. In the final minutes we were together he asked me—if I was able—to come here and assure you that he did not perish in the battle.’

‘I thank you for that. It means a great deal to me knowing he survived. As to how he will be dealt with, that is another matter, but even Cromwell’s army will lack the resources to try so many prisoners. But what of you now? I imagine Roundheads will be searching for those Royalists who escaped Worcester.’

‘They are. It is my belief that the wars are over, the Royalist cause in ruins. The drawn-out conflict has reduced honest citizens to beggars and no corner of this land has been left untouched by the evils of war. The world as we knew it before the wars has gone. England has suffered enough. It’s my intention to go to France.’

‘If Cromwell offers a pardon to Royalists willing to abide by the laws of the Commonwealth, will you accept it?’

‘Never.’ A fierce light burned in William’s eyes. ‘I did not enter the fray until my sixteenth birthday and before he was cruelly executed, I fought hard for King Charles the First. I will not give it all up now. His son, King Charles Stuart, has my undying loyalty. It is unthinkable that I desert him. He needs support now more than ever. I expect Arlington Court will be sequestered along with many other properties of those who supported the King.’

‘And young Charles Stuart? Where is he?’

‘The last I heard he had escaped Worcester, thank God.’

‘The day will come when he comes into his own, I am confident of that—and when he does, all that has been stolen from those who remained loyal will be returned. This time will pass.’

‘Will it? Do you really believe that?’

‘It must. I cannot conceive of the people of England turning permanently against their King. Reason will prevail in the end. I am sure of it.’

‘I pray it will be so. There is nothing we can do but wait and see. But I must take my leave of you. Should I be found here it will not go well with you.’

‘Three times Roundhead patrols have been here—you will have seen the evidence for yourself. Each time the house was searched. You are right to put as much distance between you and them as possible. But I see you are wounded,’ he said, his gaze going to the blood that had seeped into his doublet. ‘You must have it tended to and take refreshment before you leave, but I have a favour to ask of you and, in the light of what has happened at Worcester and my own weakness, it is most urgent. I am almost at the allotted time on this earth. What matters to me now is Arlette. I fear greatly what will happen to her if she remains here.’ He looked at his daughter with loving but worried eyes. ‘It is my wish that Arlette goes to live with her half-sister in London.’

Arlette gasped. ‘No, Father. I will not go. Do not ask me to leave here. It’s too cruel. I could not bear it—living in the house of a Parliament man. I am your daughter and my place is here with you.’

‘A daughter’s place is to obey her father,’ her father pointed out, his voice softening.

There was an unusual flush on the girl’s cheeks and the eyes with which she regarded her father were openly defiant. ‘I will not go. Do you really think I would willingly go to safety, leaving you behind to face danger?’

‘Understand me, Arlette. Understand why I am doing this. I am unwilling to subject you to any unnecessary suffering should the Roundheads come here—as they will, I am sure of it. I know you haven’t spent much time with Hester during your childhood, but you will be safe with her and, despite our differences, I believe her husband to be a moderate man. She is a woman of integrity and honesty and she will endeavour to do her best for your welfare and protection. Do as I ask, Arlette. I beg you.’ He looked at William. ‘You will take her?’

William looked at Arlette standing like a miniature statue, feeling her withdrawal from her father. Her dejection pierced his heart. He saw her attempt to struggle to mask her painful disappointment and inexplicable sadness. His gut tightened with the instinctive need to protect her.

‘Will you do it?’ Sir Isaac asked.

William nodded. ‘I will take her,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I will then make my way to the coast and take ship to the Continent. My mother and sister are there already.’

Having reluctantly agreed to Sir Isaac’s request, to ease his unease and to soothe Arlette’s, William met her eyes and smiled, relieved when she met his gaze unflinchingly. He was encouraged by her quiet display of strength.

With a need for haste, just one hour later, after William had eaten and had his shoulder tended by the housekeeper, and Arlette had gathered provisions and a few necessities she would need to see her to London, they left, mounted on Hector.

With her small body nestled close to William’s and tears clogging her throat after saying a final farewell to her father and Blanche—who had been more like a mother to her over the years—Arlette was strangely comforted and reassured by William’s presence and the warmth in his voice. But knowing she would not see her father again on this earth, her young heart ached fit to burst with her loss.

As they rode away she turned and looked back at the house, drawing in a deep breath, willing the scent of the surrounding countryside and the image of the house to remain with her for the long years ahead.

It was a strange kind of existence as they travelled towards London. Arlette rode pillion behind William and when they encountered the odd traveller he implied that she was his sister and that they were going to visit family in London. They kept away from the main thoroughfares, for not only were they more likely to run into Roundheads on the main routes, but they were also notorious for thieves.

On the first night as they settled down to sleep beneath the stars, with the desolation of her loss and hopelessness at the thought that she would never see her father again, Arlette’s tears had flowed. Looking at her huge eyes awash with tears, silently beseeching him for comfort, William had responded automatically and taken the distraught girl in his arms. She was remarkable. Torn from her home and thrust into the unknown with a virtual stranger at such an early age, she showed a bravery and selflessness he admired. She was also strong and healthy and the following morning the tears had dried from her eyes.

William was glad of her company. After the carnage that had been Worcester, seeing his friends brutally slain and his desperate escape which had driven him to the brink of exhaustion, it was Arlette he focused on to escape the pain of those memories. After looking back on the bleakness of that time, he totally lost himself in her sweetness, entering her world where everything was fresh and alive. Should danger confront them, he would protect her with his life.

When they finally reached London after three days on the road their weariness was beginning to tell on them both.

Arlette entered a strange time in her life. Only Hester could understand what torment she was going through, feeling the same cruel loss of her family. William’s presence also gave her comfort for a short time and, whatever the future held for either of them, there would be no escaping the strong bond that had developed between them during the time they had been together on the road.

William was relieved to find Hester’s husband, Richard Arden, was in the Midlands on mercer business, which reduced his fear of being turned over to the authorities. He experienced a deep concern for Arlette. Before he left he voiced his concern to her sister.

‘The leaving of her home and her father has hurt her deeply. The emotional scars will be almost impossible for her to erase for a long time.’

‘She will be well taken care of, but you are right. She is bereft. It will take her a long time, but she is strong. I have every faith she will come through.’

The summer had ended and the encroaching chill of autumn was in the air when William took his leave of Arlette. He was in the yard. She went to him with a heavy heart. That day when he had arrived at Mayfield Hall, she had been meeting a stranger and was filled with anxieties and fears. Now she was facing the painful task of saying goodbye to someone who had become precious to her. She shivered, wishing this day had never come. Not only had a closeness developed between them, but also a tenderness.

William pulled his hat down over his ears and hugged Arlette, who was clinging to his hand.

‘I don’t want you to leave,’ she whispered, her eyes wide and vulnerable and shining with tears. ‘I want to go with you.’

‘I can’t take you with me, Arlette. I am going to join the King in France. With my father dead and the rest of my family in France, my estate in Warwickshire seized by Parliament and myself declared a traitor, I have no choice.’

‘But you will come back, won’t you?’

‘Perhaps—in time. But I will not return to England while it is ruled by Cromwell.’ Seeing the pain in her eyes, he placed his hands on her young shoulders and bent down so that his face was on a level with hers. ‘It is right that you are here with your sister.’ As he held her from him, his look was earnest. ‘You do understand why I have to go, don’t you?’

She nodded, swallowing down the lump in her throat and blinking back the tears that threatened to flow from her eyes at any moment. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘But you won’t forget me, will you?’

‘You have become very dear to me, Arlette. I could never do that.’

Giving him a teary smile, she backed away from him. ‘Wait a moment. I have something for you.’

William watched her scamper off, then, hearing a horse’s hooves clattering on the cobbles, he saw her leading Hector towards him. He smiled.

‘What have we here?’

Arlette glanced at the pathetic-looking horse her sister had managed to find for him, which Arlette rejected. ‘I want you to have Hector.’

‘But Hector was your father’s horse. I cannot take him.’

‘I want you to have him. I know it is what my father would have wanted. Besides, Hector likes you. I know you will take care of him.’

With emotion almost choking him, William wrapped her young body in his strong arms and hugged her hard, then he took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead.

‘Goodbye, Arlette. I wish you joy and happiness and luck in your life. May God bless you.’

‘William,’ she said as he turned from her. He looked back with a questioning look. ‘Be careful, won’t you?’ she said hoarsely. ‘With your life.’

He was silent a moment and then said, ‘Of course I will. Why? Why would you say that? Is it precious to you?’

She nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Will I see you again?’

He smiled. ‘I do have a habit of turning up when least expected. Perhaps I may have cause to come and visit you in London—or better still at Mayfield Hall when all this is over. Would I be assured of a welcome in your house?’

‘There will always be a welcome for you, William—no matter where I am.’

Lowering his head, he turned and walked away. Arlette watched him, wanting to say something more, but she couldn’t. The words were trapped in her throat and tears welled up in her eyes. She had been aware that one day he would have to leave her, that his presence in her world was transitory. But it had come too soon. Sorrow and emotion swamped her, wrenching at her heart. He left her then and she watched him ride away. All that remained of his solid presence was the trace of a light kiss on her forehead, the image of his back and the painful noise of Hector’s receding hooves.

Hester came to stand beside her, placing her arm about her shoulders.

‘Will he come back?’ Arlette asked in a low voice.

‘As to that I cannot say.’

Her desolation was as acute as when she had left Mayfield Hall. ‘He has to come back,’ she whispered to herself. ‘He has to. I couldn’t bear it if he didn’t.’