The Monmouth Summer (36 page)

Her voice rose with passion, and Robert glanced over his shoulder to see if the door were still shut.

"I can't do that, Ann, now can I? I too am fighting for what I believe in, you know - for the proper rule of law."

"You heard what that law does to people."

"Yes, I know." His hand pressed hers tightly, seeking at once to comfort and to insist on quiet. His own voice fell to a low, earnest drone. "But what do you think your father's army would do to me if they won, eh? What Cromwell did to King Charles?"

"We didn't do ... what Colonel Weston said. And the Duke of Monmouth didn't do it to the Scots, either. Colonel Weston admitted that himself."

"True. It is a barbaric punishment. But the King can exercise mercy, you know. We're not all butchers. I think perhaps it would be his best policy; and he is a shrewd enough judge."

"Pray God you are right. Pray God he does not get the chance to judge."

They were silent for a moment, looking intently into each other's eyes, her hands imprisoned in his. They heard laughter, and the sound of the final farewells, from the street door outside. Robert began to speak very quickly, his voice low and earnest.

"Listen, Ann, you must not let this rebellion come between us. You want to be my mistress, I know you do. I can see it in your eyes, just as I could see it there the other night. And you could do it so easily - you see how beautiful you are in these clothes, how people admire you and accept you. It's right for you; I knew it would be, when I asked you before. And I knew you wanted to come to London then."

"But I didn't come."

"No, you didn't come because you were afraid of your family. I know that they could never accept it. You would have had to break with them anyway, don't you see? So the rebellion doesn't make things any different now, does it? In fact it helps you. You have to choose between your family and me, now, and it's only good sense to choose me."

"But my father! You heard what might happen to him!"

"What
might
happen to him. It may not come to that. I've already told you, the King may exercise mercy, and punish only a few. And anyway, your father may be killed in battle before that. That's a risk he's taken from the beginning."

"Oh no! Don't say that, Robert! I don't want him to die!"

"No, of course not." Robert sighed, looking at her pale, shocked face, thinking that perhaps he had been too precipitate. She was so beautiful, he could not bear to lose her. "Listen, there may be a chance to help him."

"To help him? How?" Ann's voice was curious rather than eager, strangely cold and distant.

"Well, it's only a small chance. It's just that, if your father should be captured, and I should have anything to do with it; I mean, if he was captured by my troops, or by someone I knew …”

"Yes?"

"I could try, at least, to see that he was spared the full punishment."

She did not answer, but stared at him as though dazed, her lips parted, a puzzled look of pain in her eyes. Then she took a long breath, and closed her eyes as though praying; and as she did so, the door handle rattled, and then the door opened slowly with a good deal of noisy hesitation and Mr Ashley came in, a little hearty and unsteady with the wine.

"So, you are the last two, are you? Jolly good. Don't get up, don't get up! You look a picture there, the two of you together in that window-seat. A proper picture, don't they, Marianne my love?"

Marianne nodded her agreement, but Robert got to his feet nonetheless. Ann noticed how strong and lanky he seemed in front of his shorter relatives.

"No, I must go, Richard, really. We were just saying our goodbyes. With any luck we'll be up with the rebels tomorrow, and settle this thing for good. I don't want to fall asleep in the middle of it."

"Indeed you don't. But do you think it'll really be so soon? That'd be within a day's ride of the city."

"It could be, you know. They can't be far away now, and 'twould be folly to retreat much further."

"Then we could ride out and see it!" cried Marianne impulsively. "I was going for a ride tomorrow - perhaps I'll follow you to watch. And I'm sure Ann would like to see her warrior in action!"

"Well, I don't know about that," said Robert, frowning. "Battles
are
dangerous, you know, Marianne. People do get hurt."

"And only big boys like you can play such games, I suppose. I do know that. But if one sits on a distant hill, one can get a fine view, I'm sure, without any danger. Just like watching the hunt instead of following it. Don't you think so, Richard my love?" She seized her husband's arm eagerly, a twinkle of excitement in her eyes.

"Perhaps, my dear. A very distant hill." He beamed at her protectively. "But we'll see in the morning. Don't forget you have a refugee to look after."

"Ann? But she can come too. That's excellent - old Blaze needs an outing - he's getting ever so fat!"

"Well, don't forget I leave Ann in your care, Marianne. She's very precious to me. I would like to see her safe when I return. And you may find she has seen enough of soldiers for now."

Robert bowed to them all, and went out. So that was it, Ann thought. She was here in safe keeping - a sparrow in a gilded cage. But she was too tired to worry about it now. She got to her feet in turn, swaying slightly as she did so. Marianne rushed to her side.

"My poor girl, you look exhausted! He has kept you up far too late! You must go to bed immediately. Here, take this candle. I will send for Mrs Taylor to help you undress."

She showed Ann carefully up the stairs to her room, chattering all the way. Mrs Taylor came, and released Ann from the prison of the corset. Then she helped her off with the long, rich dress, folded it carefully on a trunk, and left.

At last she was alone. She put on the long silken nightdress and climbed into bed. For a while she watched the shadows dance among the curtain hangings above her, and listened to the sound of doors opening and closing downstairs. She blew out the candle, and lay back, leaving the curtains of the bed open, and let the darkness of the room wash gently into her mind.

"W
HAT'S THAT? There!"

"Whatever now? Where, Tom?"

"There - on the hillside. 'Tis someone moving!" Tom Goodchild pointed nervously up the road, to a field on the left of the lane they were guarding. Adam looked carefully, but could see nothing; only the dark outline of the trees silhouetted against the sky to the north.

"No. You must've been eating carrots, boy, if you can see something there." Adam tried to make his voice sound jocular, to calm Tom down. It was the third time that night the boy had claimed to see something.

But Tom was not convinced. "Wait till the moon comes back. You'll see him then!"

Adam sighed and waited. It was a rough, windy night, with dark clouds scudding across the sky. For most of the time they could hardly see each other, let alone men in distant fields. Adam peered at Tom, trying to see the expression on the big, bony face under the pikeman's helmet, but he could barely make out the outline of the strong nose and pale cheeks, and the black pool of the eyes staring intently out into the darkness. Tom had not been the same since the wait outside Bristol, Adam thought, when he had lost confidence in Monmouth's ability to lead them. Ever since then he had been jumpy, looking about him nervously as though they were about to be attacked, and muttering incomprehensibly to himself whenever an officer came past; the antithesis of the loud, boastful youth he had been in Taunton.

It was understandable enough. Heaven knew they had had plenty to bear in the forty-eight hours since Bristol. Adam shuddered as the memory of Philip Cox's head came back to him. He had thought he would go mad with that sight, for a time. All yesterday night, as they marched to Bath, he had seen the face in his mind, or in a chance shape of the moonlight in the branches. The face was never quite dead - it leered at him with that strange grin of fury that Philip Cox had meant for his attacker, and muttered soundless words that never quite became sense.

At the dawn halt to Adam's relief, Israel Fuller had led them in prayers of remembrance, assuring them that Philip's conduct had always been that of one of the Elect, and that the manner of his dying had made it certain that he was called to sit at God's right hand. Adam had felt himself strangely comforted by the thought of the nearness of death and the final judgement on their strife. He yearned for the comfort of knowing that he, too, was one of the Elect; if he could be sure of that, it would be so easy to die. But perhaps it was possible. He had not shown real fear so far. He had faced the enemy and he had not run. Not yet!

And so for once he even managed to sing the psalm of remembrance with a passable attempt at good cheer. Then for the rest of that long Friday he had been too tired to think any more, as they left Bath and slithered in their filthy wet boots to this village of Philip's Norton, struggling to help heave the carts and cannon through the narrow lanes, up and down the unending repetition of little coppiced hills with their few sheep and cattle and poor, muddy farms, whose inhabitants gaped at them in ignorant wonder.

Towards the end of the day, a soldier in the company ahead of them had shot a countryman as he held a gate open for them, apparently for no more reason than that the countryman, confused no doubt about who they were, had said he was for the King. As they marched by, the men of Colyton had glanced curiously at the limp body sprawled in the mud. The jaw hung open in stupid surprise, and a dirty red stain discoloured the smock. At the time they said nothing, which was the worst thing of all. Only later that night, when they were making camp, did Roger Satchell say he hoped no man of his company would sink so low as to shoot unarmed countrymen. They all nodded in sober agreement, and glanced surreptitiously round at those amongst them they thought weakest.

"There! He's in the lane now. There's two - three of 'em!"

The moon shook itself free of the entangling clouds. and the muddy lane they were guarding glistened like a snail's path with sudden silver. Ahead, about a hundred yards away, the silhouettes of three men were picking their way carefully along it on foot.

"You'm right this time, then, boy," Adam murmured softly. He set his musket firmly in its rest, aiming at the man in the middle, the taller of the three. Something about his stride seemed oddly familiar. As they came nearer Adam could see that two of them were quite well-dressed - tall. with feathered hats and high riding boots. The third was shorter, with a plain round helmet. They were talking softly to each other. He could still not see their faces. They were about twenty yards away when another cloud caught the moon, and Roger Satchell called out a challenge.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

There was a muttered consultation, and then a voice Adam thought he recognised replied:

"Friends of King Monmouth. Who are you?"

"King Monmouth's army. And the password?"

"Psalms 27, 3.
'Though an host shall encamp against me, I shall not fear.'
And the answer?"

"'Though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident.'
Advance then, friends, and identify yourselves."

The three men came forward solemnly. "I am Colonel Wade, Mr Satchell - you should know my voice by now," said the shorter man in the helmet.

"I thought I did, sir, but 'tis best to check in the dark."

"Indeed it is, Mr Satchell, though I hope you know my voice also," said one of the taller men. "I am glad to find you keeping such good watch."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Roger Satchell bowed, the straps of his breastplate creaking as he did so. "I hardly expected to find you wandering beyond our lines."

"Is that a criticism, Mr Satchell?" Monmouth's usually pleasant voice sounded sharp and nervous. "But no matter. I have been out surveying the land behind us, in case we are attacked ... and also, in the hope of being the first to welcome my friends from the Horse Guards, when they come in to join us. But they are delayed, it seems."

The moon escaped from the clouds again, and Adam and the others saw their leader glance wistfully back over his shoulder up the silent. silver lane.

"You have hopes, then, that they will come over to us, Your Grace?"

"Hopes, Mr Satchell? I have promises, firm promises from men with whom I have spent half my life!" The anxious voice rose sharply, and then stopped, as they all listened to the ghostly silence from the lane.

"That is good news, then, Your Grace. We need good horsemen."

“And we will have them, Mr Satchell, do not fear. My Lord Feversham's army will melt like butter in his hand when he tries to use it against me. My friends will not desert me. I know them, far better than I know anyone here. And I also have promises of a hundred and fifty horsemen from Mr Adlam in Wiltshire, who should reach us soon. Then we shall have a proper regiment of horse indeed - enough to make my Lord Grey here into another Prince Rupert."

"Yes, Your Grace." Roger Satchell stared stolidly at the third man beside Monmouth, the effete languid Grey, whom he and all the others had seen flee from the militia at Bridport. There was another awkward pause, broken by the sudden eerie shriek of a nightjar.

"So all is far from lost, you see. You will have your Protestant King in London by the end of the month." Monmouth drew a deep breath, as though to steady himself, and let it out in a long, slow sigh. "But even royalty must rest. Come, gentlemen, back to the George. Keep good watch, Mr Satchell, and send for me instantly if a troop of horsemen should appear. Are you coming, Colonel Wade?"

"If you have need of me, Your Grace. But if not, I would go the rounds of my regiment before I sleep."

"Of course, of course. It is only pleasant talk I need now, and Grey can give me that."

The two aristocrats strode away down into the village, and the men from Colyton listened until the splash and squelch of boots in the mud turned to the distant click of their heels on the cobbles.

"So we're to expect reinforcements, then?" said Roger Satchell quietly to Colonel Wade.