Lady Vengeance

In which a nobleman gives vent to his anger, and five men of good birth show a lack of good breeding.

December 1745

The thunder of hoofs was like a drum-roll for the devil, thought the young postillion: God save us, the master might have been flying from Old Nick himself, the speed he chose to travel! Within the coach Guy Morellon, Marquis of Thurleigh, seemed impervious to the lurching and swaying of the vehicle, but leaned back against the tabaret-silk squabs and gazed idly out upon the wintry landscape. He scarcely noticed the bare fields, nor the iron-grey sky, his thoughts occupied with the fortunes of the young Charles Stuart who, if reports were correct, was even now sweeping south with his supporters to regain the crown for his father. The marquis wondered if the messengers sent to the young Prince had yet returned: if all had gone well, they should now be awaiting him with the others at the Black Goose, from where they would travel together to join the Jacobite Army.

* * * *

 My Lord Thurleigh considered his fellow conspirators: only five men, including himself, but not without influence. The youngest of these were Rowsell and Poyntz, whom he had sent to advise the Prince of the support that awaited him. They were also the most idealistic, with little thought for their own gain. Useful tools, as the marquis acknowledged, but very minor characters when compared to the third member of the party, James Boreland. Powerful both physically and politically, Boreland’s wealth and influence would be a great asset to the Jacobite cause. Moreover, he had been a military man, distinguishing himself in recent campaigns and thus would be invaluable not only for his experience, but also in winning over the British troops. The last member of the group had no military background, but as a pillar of the English Church Bishop Furminger could be relied upon to add respectability to their cause. My lord allowed himself an inward smile of satisfaction: when such an august group announced their allegiance to Prince Charles Edward Stuart, many would hasten to follow suit, and the Hanoverian dynasty would be rocked to its very foundations.

* * * *

 The chariot swept through a small village, the postillions making no attempt to check their horses’ rapid pace. Knowing he was almost arrived at his destination, Lord Thurleigh shook out the fine Flanders lace at the cuffs of his grey satin coat, then put up one hand to his cravat, from whose snowy folds a large ruby glared out sullenly upon the world. At that moment the sudden slowing of the carriage nearly threw him from his seat, but he steadied himself as the vehicle came to a stand and with an oath he leaned out of the window, his thin face thunderous.

 ‘What the devil is going on?’

 The postillion fought to control the plunging horses.

 ‘A woman, my lord - in the road!’ cried the white-faced servant, struggling to maintain his seat on the frightened animal.

 My lord Thurleigh moved to the other side of the carriage and looked out: at the edge of the road stood an ashen-faced woman, her clothes liberally stained with mud. She was leaning heavily upon the arm of a young girl wrapped in a sage green cloak, the hood of which had slipped back to reveal an abundance of rich chestnut hair that now tumbled about her shoulders. One of the servants had run to open the carriage door and let down the steps but, observing the muddy state of the highway, his lordship remained inside, merely calling across to the woman to ascertain that she had taken no hurt.

 ‘No, my lord. I have no injury,’ replied the woman in a faint and trembling voice.

 ‘You relieve my mind,’ came the cool reply and the marquis signalled for the steps to be put up again.

 ‘What, does my mother warrant no apology?’ cried the younger lady, stepping forward, ‘Your carriage appeared at a reckless speed, sir. We are fortunate that we crossed when we did. A moment later and we would have been trampled to death.’

 ‘Then mayhap you will take a little more care in future.’ My lord’s tone was dispassionate, but he was sensible of some surprise when he perceived the youth of the speaker: little more than a child, but now her green eyes flashed angrily at him.

 ‘Nell, please,’ murmured her mother, distressed, ‘you should not speak so to his lordship.’

 ‘I would speak no differently to the king himself!’ declared the girl hotly.

 A small crowd was beginning to gather about the scene and the marquis was eager to end this unseemly interchange.

 ‘Be thankful no-one was hurt, young woman!’ he retorted curtly. ‘And that I am too busy to deal with your insolence. Drive on!’

 As the carriage pulled away, there was much bobbing of curtsies and tugging of forelocks as the villagers recognized the nobleman, but the red-haired girl remained motionless as the coach swept by, merely fixing Lord Thurleigh with a long, accusing stare.

 ‘Impudent wench!’ he muttered as he settled himself back into his seat, ‘if I had the time I’d teach her to mind her manners, by God if I wouldn’t.’

 Inwardly, he cursed at the necessity of travelling in a closed carriage when he could have ridden to this engagement and enjoyed the exercise - but that would have left the carriage at Margaret’s disposal, and there was always the possibility, faint but persistent, that she might disobey him and drive back to London. His face darkened at the thought of his wife, the once-beautiful marchioness. What was she now - well past her thirtieth year, her face pitted with the powder and paint she relentlessly applied to it and her body raddled by the number of men she had taken to her bed. Perhaps he could have forgiven her the lovers, had she presented him with an heir, but after seventeen years of marriage they were still childless, a still-born son in the first year being the only bitter fruit of their union. He had also sought his pleasures elsewhere – and had suffered the penalty by contracting the pox and this latest dose was proving damnably difficult to cure, a fact that did nothing for his temper. He shifted irritably. How my lady had sulked when he told her they were to come to Thurleigh Hall. Lady Thurleigh hated the country - in Town she had her freedom and as many lovers as she wished: at Thurleigh she was lady of the manor and expected to behave herself - his lips twisted into a bitter smile. No easy task for a woman with the soul of a harlot! She numbered more than a brace of government ministers amongst her bedfellows, and if he was to march into London with the rightful heir to the throne, ‘twould be mighty embarrassing to find his wife abed with a Hanover man! The marquis was a cold, ruthless man and those who knew him wondered that he did not cast off his lady and find himself a wife who could give him the children needed to continue the line, but they little guessed his weakness, when Margaret stood before him with her bewitching green eyes and soft lips so inviting. Her body might not be so firm as when he had married her, but she knew to a nicety how to please a man, and when he felt her move against him, he was powerless to resist his own desires - and he hated her for it.

 By the time the chariot swept into the yard of the Black Goose, Lord Thurleigh had recovered his composure and he stepped down from the carriage to accept the innkeeper’s obsequious greeting with his habitual indifference.

 The landlord ushered Lord Thurleigh into a long, low-ceilinged room upon the first floor. The apartment boasted an imposing canopied bed at one end of the room and at the other, long windows overlooking the yard. In front of these windows there was a round table, at which were seated three gentlemen in travelling dress and a fourth in a full-bottomed wig and black raiment of a man in religious orders. They all rose from their seats as the marquis came in, but no-one spoke until the landlord had retired, closing the door silently behind him.

 ‘Well,’ drawled my Lord, drawing off his gloves, ‘what news?’

 The gentleman in black stepped forward, mopping his plump, glistening face with a fine lace handkerchief.

 ‘My lord, it is all up with us!’ he cried. ‘Our cause is lost!’

 Thurleigh turned a contemptuous eye upon the speaker.

 ‘My dear Furminger, I am aware your bishopric cost you a great deal,’ he sneered, ‘But did it cost you all your nerve as well?’

 The clergyman’s flushed face grew darker, but my lord’s attention had already moved to a sandy-haired young gentleman in a brown frock-coat.

 ‘Rowsell, did you see the Prince?’

 ‘Alas my Lord. Poyntz and I reached Derby by dusk on Saturday, only to find His Highness had already departed - northward.’

 Lord Thurleigh regarded him steadily for a full minute, his cold face expressionless. At length, his hard grey eyes fell to a half-empty decanter upon the table and he stepped up to fill himself a glass, then in a leisurely fashion he lowered himself onto a convenient chair, signalling the others to do the same.

 ‘You must forgive me if I seem a little dull, Rowsell, but why did you not go after him?’ he asked softly.

 The gentleman hesitated, and cast an anxious glance at Mr Poyntz, a corpulent young man who then took up the story.

 ‘The army left Derby a full day ahead of us, my lord and they were in retreat. To travel after them, and on a Sunday too, would have made us very conspicuous, and ‘twould have shown our hand. We thought it best to report back to you - we have travelled with only the briefest of stops.’

 ‘Word was in Derby that the Highlanders knew they were outnumbered,’ put in Rowsell defensively. ‘They had no wish to meet the Duke of Cumberland or to engage the forces being assembled against them at Finchley.’

 ‘Then they let themselves be frightened off by exaggerated stories from the ill-informed!’ snarled a big bearded man in a coat of russet broadcloth, his fierce eyes burning.

 ‘Very likely,’ concurred the marquis, before turning his cold pitiless stare upon the two young men once more. ‘Did it not occur to you, sirs, that the Prince might have been persuaded to turn south again, once he knew he could count upon our not inconsiderable support?’

 There was an uncomfortable silence. Poyntz shifted uneasily under his lordship’s hard gaze.

 ‘There’s little sympathy for the Stuarts at Derby, my lord: it seems that their army was told that they were turning north to meet Wade’s forces, but it was generally held that the Prince was in retreat. Cumberland is not far behind him -’

 The bearded gentleman jumped up, banging his great fist upon the table as he did so, making the glasses rattle.

 ‘Bah! You should have let
me
go to Derby, sir! I’d not have let you down. God knows, between us we could raise enough support to take London, if the prince would but make the attempt!’

 ‘I feel sure you have the right of it, James,’ murmured Thurleigh.

 Bishop Furminger shook his head.

 ‘No, no, Boreland,’ he said, ‘I think we are well out of it. There’s been little enough support for the cause this side of the Border.’

 ‘Only because the majority are waiting to see how the Prince fares!’ growled Boreland. ‘They want to support the winning side. If His Highness would but press on, there’s not a doubt that the people would come over. Do not underestimate Lord Thurleigh’s influence, and my own men - why there’s more than a score of fellows who dare not stand against me. Powerful men, too, who have needed my help in the past. I’ve not allowed one of ‘em to slip away!’

 ‘That is all very well, ‘ put in Rowsell impatiently, ‘but Charles Stuart is now half-way to Scotland. What are
we
to do?’

 ‘Charge your glasses, gentlemen, and pray that His Highness comes safely out of this fiasco,’ returned the marquis coolly. He refilled his own glass, saying: ‘One golden opportunity has been missed, but while James and his line continue, there will doubtless be others.’

 ‘We are well out of it,’ repeated the bishop when they had drunk their silent toast, ‘we have none of us shown our hand, so there’s no danger for any one of us.’ His bright, bead-like eyes flicked from one to another, but he met with only hostile glances. ‘That is to say,’ he hurried on nervously, ‘we have aroused no suspicion and will therefore be able to assure His Highness of our full support in any future attempt.’

 ‘And I’d wager you are praying there will not
be
a future attempt, eh Furminger?’ jeered Boreland, ‘God knows why you elected to join us, for you’ve no stomach for this business…’

 The bishop’s round face flushed a deeper crimson.

 ‘At least ‘twas not for greed, sir, nor to please an ambitious wife!’ he retorted shrilly.

 Boreland’s eyes narrowed.

 ‘Why you little –’

 ‘Enough!’ Thurleigh’s voice was not loud, but it had its effect, for the two men resumed their seats and contented themselves with glaring at each other across the table. His lordship set his empty glass down with a snap. ‘Poyntz, tell Bradgate to send up more of his best cognac.’

 ‘Yes my lord,’ Poyntz hurried away, leaving the others in an uneasy silence.

 The marquis unbuttoned his coat and crossed one elegantly shod foot over the other, while his keen glance ranged of the three men. Furminger, for all his cleric’s robes, appeared the most agitated, his round, fat face was permanently flushed, partly with wine, partly with fear as he fidgeted nervously in his chair. In comparison, George Rowsell was outwardly composed, yet his amber eyes beneath their sandy brows were constantly shifting about the room and he drummed his fingers nervously upon he table top. My lord turned his attention to the large bearded man in the russet coat and brown bob-wig who was now sitting by the window, unconcernedly paring his nails.