Herald of joy, p.52
Herald of Joy, page 52
part #2 of Wintercombe Series
‘A brave attempt,’ Patience commented. ‘But I warn you, it may not work.’ She paused, glancing at the younger girl assessingly. The information, imparted in confidence, could do no harm, and might even lead to some good. She added, ‘You do not know this, but I think you should — you must keep it a close secret, though. When Rachael took refuge in the summerhouse yesterday…she tried to hang herself.’
There was an appalled silence. Tabby’s hazel eyes, wide with horror, stared at her aunt. ‘What?’
‘She tried to hang herself. Fortunately, she can’t tie a slip knot, and Nat found her in time, and cut her down. That is why she is keeping to her chamber, and why someone is always with her. She can barely speak, and her throat is badly marked.’
Tabby had begun to weep, the tears slithering down her face unchecked. She wiped her nose on her sleeve, and said miserably, ‘Oh, poor Rachael — I hadn’t realised — oh, how terrible.’
‘She was fortunate,’ said Patience, who did not have much sympathy for Rachael’s plight, considering it to be largely self-inflicted. ‘Remember, don’t tell anyone that you know. It could cause so much trouble, if the truth were known.’
‘I hate secrets,’ said Tabby, in quite a different voice. ‘They seem to bring nothing but misery — I wish we were rid of them, for ever!’ She dried her eyes fiercely, and turned to Patience, her slender body tense with resolve. ‘And the only way to do it, is to free Nick somehow. Have you any ideas yet, as to what we can do?’
Patience refrained from commenting on the obvious, that any attempt to set her sister’s lover at liberty would inevitably result in still more conspiracies and murky secrets. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, I do believe I have.’
And with suddenly shining eyes, Tabby listened breathlessly to her whispered plan.
*
‘For you, sir. You are Master Wickham, aren’t you?’
Tom, weary, mud-splashed and aching in every joint from following the plough, surveyed the scrawny youth in front of him in some surprise. Letters were infrequent at Longleaze, and messages brought by servants even rarer. Someone must want to contact him very urgently. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew who it must be.
He took the folded paper, warm from its place inside the boy’s doublet. Yes, the clear schoolgirl hand was Tabby’s, the superscription unmistakable. Master Thomas Wickham, of Longleaze, near Glastonbury. He pushed a finger under the seal and scanned the brief lines within, a frown on his face, while Jeremy watched him anxiously.
The boy was aware that this summons must have something to do with the recent shocking events at Wintercombe. The servants, in their usual fashion, had not long remained in ignorance of Tabby’s astonishing plot, and had their own ideas about the possible complicity of the adults. For his part, Jeremy had decided that it must be as she had so courageously declared to the unpleasant Pyne, that she had acted alone, and his admiration had soared still further. She was young, lovely, innocent, intelligent and brave, and he would do anything for her.
‘Do you know what this is about?’ asked Tom, in bewilderment. The message could only mean one thing, but the thought was so appalling that he could scarcely believe it. ‘Tell me what has happened at Wintercombe.’
With mounting astonishment, he listened to Jeremy’s rather garbled account. The soldiers’ arrival, Rachael’s betrayal, the fight in which Captain Hellier had nearly lost his life, and the saintly selflessness with which Mistress Tabby had taken all the blame on her own shoulders, seemed scarcely credible. But the boy, plainly lost in admiration of her, seemed to be telling the truth, as he saw it. Tom glanced round his barton, the two oxen being unyoked by Will Everett, his most senior worker, his own team waiting patiently, steaming in the cool dusk, for their turn. There was a great deal to do, as there was on any farm at this time of year, but this matter could not wait. The ploughing could be managed without him for a few days. His labourers were well paid and reliable, and Everett more than capable of directing them himself. He looked again at the paper, seeing the suppressed and desperate urgency of Tabby’s words. ‘Our great distress.’ So, indeed, it must be, even if Jeremy had told him everything that had happened. Although he could not see how he could be of any use to the St. Barbes in this calamity, at least he could offer his support and comfort.
And he would be able to discover the truth of Rachael’s part in the affair. The boy, with barely disguised contempt, had spoken of treachery. He could not believe it. He knew that she was rebellious, difficult, and unhappy, but he could not think her capable of informing against her own family in cold blood. Only at Wintercombe could he ascertain the truth.
‘I’ll ride back with you,’ he told Jeremy. ‘We’ll go at first light — meanwhile, there’s a bed for you, and a good supper waiting.’
And Jeremy, who had been hoping for Mistress Tabby’s sake that her entreaties would be answered, grinned delightedly in reply.
*
The object of all this tangled conspiracy lay on a hard and uncomfortable bed in a narrow stonewalled cell, contemplating his future, or the lack of it, with an equanimity that surprised him.
At least he was still alive, though the journey from Philip’s Norton had been exceedingly unpleasant. The cart in which he had been transported was, of course, unsprung, and had evidently last been used for carrying dung to the fields. Bedded on piles of straw and sacking, wrapped in blankets, the precious bag of coin and remedies concealed beneath his doublet like a talisman, he had set himself to endure and survive and, somewhat to his surprise, had done both. He could not remember very much about the latter part of the journey, but had a rather too vivid recollection of being hauled, somewhat roughly, from the cart before a crowd of jeering onlookers, and half dragged, half carried into somewhere dark, and damp, and cold, which was presumably this place. Then, he supposed that he had lost consciousness.
By the light from the tiny narrow window, it was morning. That cold pale glare had nothing of evening gentleness about it. To his vague surprise, the fierce pain in his shoulder had dulled to a nagging, miserable ache. Carefully, he probed the bandages with his other hand. It hurt, but not agonisingly so, and it did not seem to have bled any more. Although he still felt weak and tired and light-headed from lack of blood, his forehead, when he touched it, was cool and dry. No sign of fever yet, at any rate. Despite the chill in the little cell, the blankets, and Nat’s thick cloak, had kept him comparatively warm.
He was lying on his back. Slowly, with care and not without several stabs of pain, he managed to struggle into a sitting position. They had laid him on the bed as he was, not even bothering to unbutton his doublet. Careless, he thought, I could have had a pistol hidden there. But at least the coin was safe, and Silence’s potions.
He looked around him cautiously. In the distant days when he had been part of the Bath garrison, the city prison had been housed in the tower of St. Mary’s, a disused church hard by the North Gate. Incongruously, the nave and chancel of the same church, suitably adapted, contained the Grammar School, and the young sons of the aldermen and gentlemen of Bath and the surrounding district studied Latin and Greek only a few yards away from the felons in the cells.
He listened, but could hear no sound of young voices. Doubtless they were beaten if they spoke out of turn, just as he had been in his schooldays in Worcester. There were, however, distinct noises from the street outside, wheeled traffic, shouts and cries, the general bustle of a busy morning.
He looked at the window. It was unglazed, and might have allowed a small child to squeeze through its narrow confines. There was no hope of escape that way, and besides, at present he did not have the energy to do anything more than conserve his strength.
The rest of the cell was even less promising. It held his bed, another the same, mercifully unoccupied, two stools and a bucket. The small door in the corner presumably led to a turret staircase. The floor and ceiling were made of oak planks, roughly nailed to the joists, and the stone walls were ancient, the mortar flaking and powdery, stained with damp and mould. He shivered suddenly, and pushed himself down beneath the blankets, seeking warmth.
He was asleep when the gaoler opened the door, with a great noise of rattling iron and creaking hinges. He woke with a jerk, and subsided, wincing, as his injured shoulder forced itself painfully to the fore. He turned his head and saw a large and loaded tray advancing towards him.
For some reason, he had imagined his gaoler to be a long thin gloomy man. This rotund, beaming personage, who would barely reach his shoulder, was the exact opposite. ‘Aha, so we’re awake, are we?’ he said, in accents that were not of Bath. ‘And about time too. Breakfast, your worship.’
Nick eyed him suspiciously. This man, unlikely as it might seem, had absolute power over him. The provision of food, comforts, medicines and visitors would be entirely at his discretion, and his whim. Offend him, and life would become exceedingly unpleasant. Grease his palm, and blankets, books, fine food and writing materials, even the passing of messages, might well be procured. He had been prepared to bribe, cajole and plead to obtain what he needed. Now, looking at this jovial little man, he wondered if it would be necessary.
Of course it was. He sat up gingerly, and surveyed the repast set out for him. Coarse bread, probably mixed with barley or even rye, and a watery-looking broth that might contain anything. His appetite not exactly encouraged, Nick looked up from the tray. ‘This, I take is, is what you give to all your prisoners?’
‘Yes, if they haven’t the wherewithal to pay the extra,’ said the gaoler, with cheerful candour. He held out a chubby pink palm. ‘Have you, sir?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Nick, guardedly. ‘But before I pay you anything, I would like to ascertain the conditions under which I am held. Is there anything which I am not allowed — barring my liberty, of course?’
‘Colonel Pyne didn’t say, sir. Anything within reason, that’s the usual rule — so long as the prisoner pays for it, of course,’ said the gaoler, hopefully. ‘And a fine Cavalier like yourself, sir, should surely be supplied with ready coin.’
He had taken the precaution earlier of hiding the bag, containing the greater part of his money, beneath the mattress. He fumbled under the pillow, where he had concealed the rest, and brought out a silver coin. ‘Take that, and bring me a breakfast that’s fit to eat — if you please. A crown should be sufficient to feed me for several days.’
The gaoler gave him a very sharp glance. He snatched the coin from his hand, bit it, and pushed it deep into a pocket. ‘That all depends, sir.’
‘On what?’
‘On how well you want to be fed,’ said the little man. ‘If you want roast meat and white bread and fine wines — well, at the Katherine Wheel’s prices, it’ll barely buy you a dinner. But bread, cheese, ale — plain fare but good, yes, it should last you three or four days.’
‘Plain fare,’ said Nick. ‘I am not, alas, awash with coin. But of good quality, nothing stale or rancid, and plenty of it. I doubt that Colonel Pyne would wish me to waste away.’
‘I doubt he’d care overmuch,’ said the gaoler bluntly. ‘He’s got other fish to fry. My orders are to keep you here until you are well enough to be sent to Bristol, with the rest of the Scots prisoners. Your comfort was not mentioned, sir. As is customary, the condition of your confinement depends on my reward.’
‘Unusual, to find a gaoler with a sense of humour,’ Nick said drily. “But at any rate, there should be no misunderstanding between us. I have stated my requirements, and given you the necessary payment — would you be so good as to carry them out?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said the man, and bowed with exaggerated courtesy.
In half an hour, a very different tray was brought to him. New bread, still with a faint lingering warmth from the oven, a solid wedge of cheese, and a leather blackjack of beer. He ate it all with enthusiasm, and then retreated once more within the warmth of the blankets, feeling very much better. The gaoler — Pearce, his name was, Harry Pearce — was as venal as all turnkeys, but not malicious. Anything would be available to him, except his liberty, if he was prepared to pay for it.
He had thought of sending a message to Wintercombe, but decided against it. To do so would only incriminate them further, and he could not risk it. He suspected that, in himself, he did not matter very much to Colonel Pyne and his henchmen. He was merely one more Cavalier prisoner, without high rank or important knowledge, and there were thousands such in London, Bristol, Chester and many other places. Pearce had spoken casually of shipment to the New World, to work as bondservants on the plantations, or, more unpleasantly, in the gold mines of the Guinea Coast. Merchants were apparently already bidding for prisoners. Somehow, he must extract himself from his cell, without suspicion falling on anyone at Wintercombe. He would be no use to Silence labouring in a gold mine in Guinea, but neither could he compromise her further. Which meant that, if he did escape, he must not attempt to contact her for a very long time.
His battered mind, weakened and exhausted by the headlong events of the past few days, could find no way out. It would come to him, he was sure: somewhere amid all the tangle lay the answer. But for the moment, all he wanted to do was to sleep, and regain his strength.
*
At Wintercombe, a precarious air of normality had been attained. The servants, shocked and bewildered by the discovery of fugitive Cavaliers under their roof, no longer gathered in odd corners, whispering, but went about their mundane duties with the appearance of calm. Mistress Rachael still kept to her chamber, and one or two of the more forthright had stated that twere no surprise that the northering forweend wench was too shamed to put her nose out of her door. There were very few people who had a good word for Rachael, whatever their feelings about Scots and Cavaliers. Poor Jude, her maid, sadly aware of the real reason for Rachael’s concealment but unable to disclose it, did her best to defend her.
The children were exceedingly subdued. William was too good-natured to be unkind to Kate about her revelation of their secret, but Deb, miserable and confused herself, lost no opportunity to make sly references to it, frequently reducing her little sister to tears. Doraty, exasperated, found herself appealing to a higher authority several times a day, and Silence must put aside her own worries and cares to pour oil on the nursery’s troubled waters.
It had been so difficult to preserve her calm, which seemed, she thought with amusement, like a crust of pastry covering something quite different: tainted meat, perhaps. But the years of practice had told, and to her servants and her children, she was her usual serene self: as if her lover had not been hauled wounded off to prison in danger of death; as if her daughter were not guilty of crimes against the Commonwealth; her stepdaughter had not tried to hang herself; and as if the family lawyer were not attempting to blackmail her into marriage. It seemed so fantastic, so absurd, that if she had heard of it happening to someone else, she would have laughed in disbelief. Yet she was caught up in this nightmare, and it was not in the least amusing. She knew in her darkest heart that only a miracle could save her from becoming Jonathan Harley’s wife.
He would soon return, and demand her answer. The only hope to which she could still cling was that Nat might be able to amass sufficient, in cash or in land, to keep him quiet without resorting to marriage. The thought of bargaining with him made her gorge rise, but there was no help for it. He had no proof, but his certain knowledge of their guilt was a powerful weapon against them. He held their fates in his hands, and knew his power too well.
Once, she had wished that her husband would not return from the war. Once, she had felt ashamed of that impulse, and chastised herself bitterly for desiring his death, however remotely.
Now, with an intensity that terrified her, she understood why murder was done. She found herself imagining how it would feel to plunge a well-sharpened knife into that satisfied chest, to beat that handsome, clever face into an unrecognisable pulp. And she knew, with sick dread, that she would be capable of it, for he threatened her happiness and her children and Wintercombe, and his death might perhaps be her only chance of salvation.
She dared not mention these appalling feelings to Nat. She feared that he, devious and selectively amoral, was quite capable of slipping some deadly potion into Harley’s wine, and speaking to him with cheerful fellowship as the poison spread through his veins. Then she was ashamed of her mistrust. Nat was not evil. He was too cynical, too light-hearted, too contemptuous of convention, but he was not so wicked as to encompass, with forethought and deliberation, the death of another human being, however reprehensible that person might be.
That night, at the hour when Nick had come to her, only two days ago, she prayed long and urgently for deliverance from evil, from her dreadful thoughts, and for an answer to her appalling predicament. When she rose from her knees, cold and stiff, weary and heartsick, the stillness and emptiness of midnight was her only reply.
But someone must have been listening, for quite early the next morning, only just after the family had broken their fast, there was a knock on her chamber door, and Mally walked in.
She looked anxious, her small freckled face most uncharacteristically pinched and tense. So unexpected, and so utterly welcome, was her return, that Silence could barely refrain from weeping. The two women, so different in appearance and in position, but united by many years of friendship and loyalty, embraced with much warmth, and she saw, touched, that Mally herself was close to tears.
‘I’ve come back to help ee,’ said her maid, once ensconced in one of the fireside chairs, with Misty, who had always liked her, curled purring in her lap. ‘It d’seem to me, you d’need it despeard bad, m’lady.’
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ Silence told her, spreading her hands. ‘But — Mally, what of your grandmother? Surely she is more in need of you than I am?’
