The Forest (73 page)

‘How’d you do it, George?’ his brother asked.

‘Don’t you worry about that.’ George was in a transport of delight. The Lisles and the Prides. All humiliated. All in one go. ‘That’s easy, that is. Don’t you worry.’

Moyles Court was bigger than Albion House. It had a number of large brick chimneys rising from its various parts and a large open courtyard. It was set in a clearing, with trees all around, although there were two small paddocks on the slope up to the Forest opposite. The manor’s main fields lay on the Avon valley floor, not far away.

Betty was standing in the courtyard when the letter from Peter Albion was brought on Monday morning. The messenger who delivered it had already gone to Albion House and been sent on there.

It was brief. Peter’s business in Kent had been cut short and he had returned to London only the day after they had left. He had been shocked to find them gone, because he had an important matter to discuss with her. He was following in person and expected to arrive at Albion House on Tuesday afternoon.

As she read, Betty felt her heart quicken. She had no doubt what this must mean. In her mind there was only one question, therefore: should she tell her mother before she went to Albion House, or not? She realized that the servants at Albion House would surely send him on to Moyles Court anyway. He’d be there by Tuesday evening. And whatever her feelings, Dame Alice could hardly send him away. She was receiving other visitors that evening, wasn’t she? But all the same, the thought of going to meet him was attractive.

George Furzey waited until Tuesday morning before going over to Jim Pride’s. He found the underkeeper leaving his lodge.

Jim wasn’t particularly pleased to see him, but he was civil enough, as George delivered his message: ‘Dame Alice wants to see you at Moyles Court.’

‘Moyles Court?’ Pride frowned. ‘I can’t get over there till evening. I’ve got things to do.’

‘She don’t want you there till evening. She said she’s out till dusk anyway but wants you to come by after that. She said sorry to ask you to come so late but it’s urgent.’ He felt pretty pleased with this.

‘What does she want me for?’ the puzzled underkeeper asked.

‘I don’t know, do I?’

‘How come it’s you bringing me this message?’ Pride demanded with a trace of irritation.

‘How come it’s me? ’Cause I was going by Albion House, that’s why. And the groom said he had to go on with a message, but he was late, so I said I’d take it for him. That’s why. I’m just being helpful, aren’t I? There something wrong with that?’

No. No, Pride allowed, there was nothing wrong with that.

‘You be sure to go, mind. I don’t want to get blamed if you don’t show up.’

‘I’ll go,’ Pride promised.

‘All right then,’ said Furzey. ‘I’m off.’

The early evening was warm as William Furzey rode out of Ringwood, where he had borrowed a horse from a blacksmith he knew. There were two hours to go before dusk, so he took his time.

The River Avon between Ringwood and Fordingbridge is particularly lovely. Often, towards evening, when the fishermen come out, there is a magical mist that drifts across its watery meadows, as if the silence itself had coalesced into a damp but tangible form. The first hint of such a mist was just beginning to arise on the water as Furzey rode northwards through the dappled shadows cast, like fishermen’s lines, across the lane.

Would they come? He certainly hoped so. He wondered how much the authorities would think they were worth. Five pounds, perhaps? Ten? What if they were captured on the way, though? Possible, but it seemed to him unlikely. He guessed the authorities would rather take them together with Dame Alice, whom they could not possibly like, at Moyles Court.

He rode along cheerfully, therefore.

Stephen Pride had been feeling his age a bit that day, but he kept himself cheerful. A few aches and pains were to be expected. A walk usually eased the stiffness in his leg. It was because of the pain there, although he didn’t care to admit it, that he had set off in the afternoon to call upon his son.

Jim Pride had been out when his father arrived, but his wife and children had been there and Stephen had spent a pleasant hour playing with his grandchildren. The youngest, a four-year-old boy, had insisted on making his grandfather try to catch him, which had left old Stephen a little more tired than he wanted the child to see. He was grateful when his kindly daughter-in-law took pity on him
and called the children indoors for a while so that he could sit in the shade of a tree and take a nap.

Jim returned just after he awoke and told him about the message from Dame Alice. Stephen had no more idea than his son what this might be about, but agreed that if Dame Alice wanted him, he should certainly go.

At their insistence, he remained with Jim and his wife until early evening.

The lengthening shadows were providing a pleasant coolness under the blue August sky by the time Stephen Pride made his way slowly along the edge of Beaulieu Heath towards Oakley; and he had just passed the path that led across to Boldre church when he caught sight of a figure a little way ahead. It was a lone, mounted woman, quite motionless, gazing out across the heath, apparently unaware of his approach. Only as he drew close, and she turned to look at him, did he realize it was Betty Lisle.

She greeted him affectionately. ‘I’m waiting for my cousin Peter Albion,’ she explained.

She had been at Albion House since early afternoon. Rather than risk a confrontation, she had finally decided to tell her mother she was going for a ride in this direction; that way she could meet Peter without interference and return with him to Moyles Court in the evening.

Her mother had raised no objection to her ride and she had arrived at Albion House in good time; but there had been no sign of Peter. All afternoon she had waited at the house but at last, unable to bear it any longer, she had told the servants to keep her cousin there if he turned up from the Lyndhurst road and had gone out to the edge of the heath to watch, in case he decided to cut across that way. She was glad to see Stephen; at least she could talk to him and take her mind off her vigil.

Stephen was interested to hear about this cousin. He knew the Albions well enough to understand at once who Peter was. He told Betty that he could even remember
seeing the young man’s grandfather, Francis, once when he had been a boy.

‘I meant to return with him to Moyles Court this evening,’ she told him. ‘If he doesn’t come soon, I don’t know what I should do. Go back without him, I suppose.’

Pride told her next about the message Dame Alice had sent to Jim.

This puzzled her. ‘As my mother knew I was coming this way, I’d have thought she’d have asked me to carry the message,’ she remarked. ‘I didn’t see any groom go off. Still,’ she added, ‘I suppose it’s something to do with the men who are coming to the house this evening.’ And she told Pride briefly of the stranger who’d been brought to Moyles Court three days before.

Soon after this, Pride went upon his way.

William Furzey waited quietly. The shadows cast by the departing sun had merged into a general orange glow and then into brownness. The mist was spreading in ghostly patches all over the meadows. The Avon valley had entered a slow summer gloaming as the first stars appeared over the Forest in a pale turquoise sky.

He saw them now: three horsemen, coming quietly through the mists towards him.

George Furzey couldn’t help it. It was more than he could bear. He put his two hands between his knees and rocked back and forth for joy, murmuring: ‘Oh my. Oh my.’

In the east, the first faint stars were just appearing. Had the horsemen come to William by now? Possibly. Had Jim Pride left on his fool’s errand? Any time now. Furzey had been so excited he couldn’t stay in his cottage. He’d come out into the warm evening, found a fallen birch tree by the edge of the heath and sat there, gazing with rapture at the beauty of the sky. He rocked himself again. ‘Oh my.’

And this was how Stephen Pride found him as he arrived,
rather weary after his long day, back at Oakley. ‘Well,’ he remarked, ‘you’re looking cheerful for once, George Furzey.’

George Furzey really couldn’t help it. All his life, it seemed to him, the Pride family had been looking down at him. But not any more. Not after tonight. ‘Maybe I am cheerful. I reckon I can be cheerful if I want,’ he replied.

‘You be as happy as you like,’ said Pride. Was there a hint of contempt in his voice?

Even if there wasn’t, this was what Furzey heard. ‘Some people may be laughing the other side of their faces, Stephen Pride,’ he said with a note of malicious triumph that couldn’t be mistaken. ‘Some may, before long.’

‘Oh?’ Pride looked at him carefully. ‘And what do you mean by that?’

‘Never you mind. I don’t mean nothing. Or if I do, it ain’t none of your concern. Or if it is’ – Furzey warmed to his theme – ‘you’ll find out when you find out, won’t you?’

And rather pleased with this bit of high diplomacy, Furzey gave him a look which, even in the fading light, plainly said ‘You’ve got something coming to you’.

Stephen Pride shrugged and walked on. This unexpected aggression left him feeling suddenly very tired.

When he reached the door of his home, his wife took one look at him and made him sit down at once. ‘I’ll bring you some broth. You rest a while,’ she commanded.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. Perhaps, he thought, he’d just sleep a few minutes. But instead of sleeping he found the events of the last few hours passing through his mind: playing with his grandchildren, talking to Jim, meeting Betty; the strange fact that she knew nothing about the message Furzey had brought; the visitors coming to Moyles Court that night; Furzey’s unusual air of triumph.

Suddenly, he sat bold upright, with a shock – as though a flash of lightning had passed, with a great thunderclap, through his brain. A moment later a tide of cold panic
surged through him. He was horribly awake. ‘Lord Jesus,’ he cried and stood up, as his wife hurried anxiously to his side. ‘That devil!’ he exclaimed. He did not know exactly what this business meant, but he saw the shape of it. The message Furzey had delivered must be a fake. That’s why he was so pleased with himself. He had Jim going over to Moyles Court where visitors were expected. No doubt they were dissenters. Dissenters? Fugitives, more like. That was it. The Forest man’s instincts told him at once that it was a trap.

‘Got to get the ponies,’ he cried, pushing past his wife. ‘Don’t worry,’ he explained, as he checked himself and gave her a kiss. ‘I haven’t lost my wits. Come with me.’

By the barn, saddling up both their ponies with feverish haste he explained to her what he knew. ‘You better take the small pony. Get up to Jim’s, fast as you can. If he hasn’t gone, tell him to stay home, but don’t tell him why. I don’t want him coming after me, see? Just tell him George Furzey made a mistake.’

‘What’ll you do?’

‘Go and warn them at Albion House. Tell them to stay put if they haven’t gone.’

‘And then?’

‘I’ll ride across the Forest. Cut Jim off if you miss him. Then I’ll go on to Moyles Court.’

‘Oh, Stephen …’

‘I’ve got to. If it’s a trap, that means Dame Alice …’

She nodded. There was no argument. Minutes later, husband and wife were cantering along the edge of the heath northwards. The dusk was gathering, but even the stars would be enough for these two, who knew every inch of the Forest. At the place where the track led towards Albion House, Stephen Pride and his wife of fifty years paused for a moment and kissed, before riding their separate ways.

‘God protect you,’ she murmured, as she glanced back,
with love and fear in her heart, at the dark path through the trees into which he had vanished.

Colonel Thomas Penruddock stared at William Furzey in the candlelight of the hall of the magistrate’s house at Hale.

Although he had looked pleased with himself when he first arrived, Furzey was a little nervous now. With their braided uniforms and yellow sashes, their huge riding boots with folding tops, their broad leather belts and clanking swords the colonel and his dozen men seemed larger than life.

‘You are sure these men are at Moyles Court?’ Colonel Penruddock demanded severely.

But about this Furzey seemed confident. ‘They were when I left them,’ he said. ‘That’s for sure.’

‘We leave here at midnight,’ Penruddock ordered his men. ‘We’ll surround the house and move in before dawn. That’s the time to catch them off guard.’ He turned to Furzey. ‘You will remain here until morning.’ Having completed his orders, Colonel Thomas Penruddock bade his cousin goodnight and went to an upstairs chamber and lay down.

But he did not sleep.

Alice Lisle. This was the third time she had come into his life. Once when she murdered his father; once when he had found her with the king; and now, caught with traitors. This time, surely, would be the last: the completion.

Retribution. It was not only his father. She represented everything he hated: those sour Puritan looks, that humourless self-righteousness; the Puritans, it seemed to him, believed that God’s kingdom was only served by the cruel destruction of all that was lovely, chivalrous, gallant. Alice Lisle the Cromwellian, the regicide, the thief of other men’s estates, the murderer. This was how he saw her. How could it be otherwise?