Wintercombe, p.61
Wintercombe, page 61
part #1 of Wintercombe Series
‘I am sorry,’ he said again. ‘I wish I could make you understand, but it seems I cannot. Will you be my friend still, despite it?’
The light was slowly trickling away. The birds had almost lapsed into sleep, and the sunset had grown hot and red and fiery in the west, promising further fine weather. She looked at him unwillingly, afraid of all that had been unsaid between them, all the emotions that lay just below the surface of their speech. ‘Perhaps,’ she said at last, and smiled, quoting him a poem from one of his own books.’ After all, “Love is not love, Which alters when it alteration finds”. Good evening, Captain Hellier.’
He watched her as she turned and walked along the arbour, her stride determined, Lily following, dejected, close at heel, her lowered ears and drooping tail a sure indication of her lady’s mood. And the irony of it made his mouth twist in a rueful smile, for he could understand her anger and bitterness. He felt much the same, and yet for pride and honour and self-respect, he could not tamely surrender his command, even for her sake.
Perhaps it would never come to a siege: and looking at the dim, lovely garden, and the tranquil, vine-covered house to which they both were bound by love and duty, he hoped fervently that it never would.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘The bubble reputation —
Even in the cannon’s mouth’
(As You Like It)
The town of Bridgwater held out against Fairfax for almost a week, and fell to storm and flame on the twenty-second of July. At Bristol, governed now by Prince Rupert, the plague had reared its ugly head, Clubmen prevented most of the reinforcements from Wales from landing, and the bad news from the south had had a demoralising effect. The Prince was concerned for the other garrisons in north Somerset, many of whom could see the future just as clearly as could Nick, but were less anxious about pride and honour. In particular, the Governor of Bath had been displaying worrying signs of faint-heartedness. The final straw had come when Rupert, on a brief visit to the City, found Sir Thomas Bridges urging capitulation as the only sensible course. The King’s nephew, white with fury, had ridden incontinently back to Bristol after a blazing argument, making plans for the Governor’s immediate replacement.
Fairfax, meanwhile, had decided to turn north, judging the Royalist garrisons there to be a greater danger to him than the broken remnants of Goring’s Crew, skulking in Devon. On the twenty-eighth of July, the New Model Army reached Wells, and Rupert, hearing the news, had despatched a more stalwart and reliable officer, accompanied by a couple of troops of horse, to hold Bath instead of the wavering Sir Thomas Bridges.
The people of Bath were frightened, and furious. The soldiers were from Bristol, and could well have brought the plague with them, to infect their clean, sweet and pleasant city, and they did not see why they should risk such a disaster when the Royal cause seemed well and truly lost. When it became apparent that many of the reinforcements were the hated and despised Welsh, their rage was redoubled. Crowds surrounded the Governor’s house in West Street, throwing rotten eggs and filth and stones, and shouting, ‘No Welsh!’
Tom Wickham, who had ridden into the city with various messages to deliver and errands to perform, reported on his return that Bath was in uproar, Sir Thomas had refused to give way gracefully to his appointed successor, the citizens were on the point of open revolt, and the garrison seemed confused and very despondent.
At Wintercombe, however, matters were somewhat different. Desertion and war had thinned their ranks, but those who were left were the most determined, courageous and capable fighters. Under Nick’s leadership, efficient and cheerful, morale stayed high. A rota for guard and forage duty had been worked out, and was strictly and fairly followed. The horses, who would be of little use in a siege, were turned out to graze in closes around Wintercombe, and cattle and sheep were driven into the orchard.
Silence, deeply disturbed by these developments, had wanted to protest, but she knew that Nick had made up his mind. It seemed ridiculous to her, this matter of honour: she did not think any the less of him for running at Langport, for she would rather a live Nick than a dead one, however much honour his fatal courage might have brought him. Her love had not changed, and she did not think that it ever would; as in the poem, it was a star for her to steer by. And if it had not been Wintercombe, her beloved house, that stood in danger, she might have felt some admiration, excitement even, at the preparations going on all around them, the air of purpose that every soldier seemed to have. But she could not forget Bridgwater, and Langport, and Chard, and all the other towns and houses and castles destroyed by the war. Would Wintercombe, too, fall to guns and fire?
She had made arrangements with Christian Baylie, and at the first sign of trouble, the children were to be taken over to Wick Farm with their nurses. Every bucket in the house had been filled with water, and put in strategic places in case of fire. Extra supplies of ammunition had been obtained from Bristol, although the Prince had been very reluctant to let anything go. His command, after all, was the most important garrison left in Royalist hands, and nothing must be allowed to prejudice its survival. Wintercombe, even Bath, were by comparison insignificant and expendable.
When the news came that Fairfax was at Wells, twenty miles away, she knew that it probably meant that he was intending to move against Bath rather than Bristol. Nick posted scouts all around Wintercombe and Norton, to warn of hostile approaches: and Silence, with fear close about her heart like a stone, called her children to her.
They stood wide-eyed and solemn in her chamber: William, the delightful little boy, everyone’s friend, with his pale-gold, silky hair in curling fronds around his face, his brown eyes staring at her earnestly; Deb, strong-willed, devious, difficult, neat and tidy for once, her cap straight and her apron clean, William’s hand held firmly in her own; Tabby, slender, cloudy-haired and graceful, carrying her music with her like a talisman; Rachael, with her moods, her secret thoughts, the burdens of her fierce, uncompromising nature; and Nat, her twin, as different from her as might be, no longer the undersized child but a young man, his voice deeper, his face sharper, the intelligence behind it even more shrewd, watchful and balanced than ever. And she wondered again, uneasily, just how much he knew of her feelings for Nick, for those blue, assessing eyes saw altogether too much.
She explained the situation, couching it in simple terms for the benefit of the younger ones. An army was coming to Bath, and there might be danger. She was therefore sending them to Wick Farm for a few days, so that they would be safe — just as they had gone there before, though not now of course in such frantic and secret circumstances.
William was happy. He liked going to Wick, and all the Baylie girls had made a great pet of him last time. Rachael did not object either, for she had greatly enjoyed helping in the dairy, and Mistress Baylie’s granddaughters were her good friends, whom she saw too rarely for her liking. Deb, understanding too much and too little, saw her mother’s anxiety and, not really aware of the cause, announced her intention of staying put. It was Nat who managed to soothe her, and persuade her that a day or two at Wick would be like a holiday. ‘And just think,’ he finished, with a glance at Silence that could only be described as wicked, ‘you won’t have to see Grandmother every morning.’
This aspect of the situation had evidently not occurred to Tabby, who had been looking most unhappy. She brightened at once. Dame Ursula, though increasingly frail in body, had not suffered any diminution of her mind, or her personality, and the daily interviews with her grandchildren were a trial to which they succumbed, according to their characters, with fear, resignation, loathing or sullen and insolent acquiescence. Silence, though she herself heartily disliked the old harridan, who had once done her best to poison her marriage, and now seemed to bring the same tireless mental energy to disrupting her relations with her children, could not help but admire that indomitable spirit that even Ridgeley had not quenched. But Dame Ursula was failing, no doubt of it. She tired very quickly now, and slept much of the day, spending the rest of it conning her Bible, or listening to the unattractive Ruth read it for her in her thick, monotonous Somerset voice. But she could still strike terror into the younger children, though Silence, as well as Nat and Rachael, had now grown past that stage.
So, four of them seemed happy to leave Wintercombe: Nat, however, was immovable. And indeed, his argument was reasoned and irrefutable. ‘I am Father’s heir now — I know I wasn’t very enthusiastic about it, but that doesn’t mean I’ll shirk my duties. And that includes staying here to watch over Wintercombe, whatever happens. I’m not a child any more, Mother, I shall be sixteen in November. At my age, Prince Rupert was a seasoned campaigner.’
Rachael, who had been quite happy to go to Wick if all the others were coming too, at once changed her mind. Why should Nat have all the excitement while she, who was the same age, was packed off like a baby to Wick? She could fire a musket like any soldier —
‘Yes,’ said her twin drily. ‘I think recent events have proved that to everyone’s satisfaction.’
Rachael had the grace to flush, but she said mutinously, ‘It’s not fair. Why should he stay? Either we should both go, or both stay. And I want to be with you, Mother — and Nat.’
Silence gazed at her in despair. She could not rant and rave and wave a big stick: any authority she had over the girl was not based on such crude and brutal methods, but on more subtle means of persuasion, reason, and appeals to her stepdaughter’s better nature. And Rachael, obstinate, sullen, her lower lip thrust out in a way distinctly reminiscent of Deb, was in no mood to listen. Moreover, the other children, particularly Tabby, were obviously now having second thoughts themselves.
This then was the test of her relationship with Rachael, so recently and hesitantly improved. She took a deep breath and said quietly, ‘No. You must go, and look after the children. Nat has a right to be here, as he has said — though I would much rather he was safely at Wick with the rest of you. But you, Rachael — I want you away from Wintercombe.’
‘But why?’ Rachael’s voice rose to a belligerent shout, and Nat, his patience for once exhausted, turned to her in exasperation. ‘I expect Mother’s afraid that if Wintercombe is taken, you’d be raped.’
‘Nat!’ Silence said, too late. Rachael’s jaw dropped and her colour receded; remorselessly, her brother went on. ‘You silly gawcum, can’t you see beyond your nose? That was why you were sent to Wick before. And if you go there now, that’s something less for Mother to worry about — and believe me, she’s got quite enough problems without wondering what mischief you’ve got up to. You’ll leave if I have to tie you to the horse.’
‘You can’t order me — you haven’t the right!’ Rachael cried, and raised a furious fist. Silence, at the end of her tether, stepped forward briskly and grabbed it before it could strike. ‘Rachael, you’re behaving like a baby. Nat’s duty is to stay with me and look to the house. Yours is to go to Wick with Doraty and Hester, and look after the children. Can I trust you to do that?’
Rachael’s hot blue eyes stared into hers, and then dropped. Silence let go of her wrist, and watched as her stepdaughter rubbed it sulkily, her face averted. At last she said reluctantly, as if the words had been forced from her, ‘Very well. I’ll go.’
They set off that afternoon. Deb and William rode Dumbledore, led by Doraty on Strawberry, Hester pillion behind her. Rachael was allowed to have Cobweb, with Tabby at her back, after Nat had graciously given permission, and she did not look at all pleased about it. Silence’s quiet words of encouragement had produced no effect on the girl but a vivid glare, as if she hoped her stepmother would turn instantly to stone. She had no idea that Rachael, for some brief, glorious moments, had imagined herself taking a heroic part in the siege, thereby proving to Nick Hellier that she was not a child, but a young woman of extraordinary courage and resource, and worthy of his notice. Her fantasies shattered, but too proud to acknowledge their existence, she rode to Wick with an invisible but lowering cloud above her head, blocking out the sun.
‘She fancies herself in love with Captain Hellier, you know,’ said Nat, as they walked back into the house after waving goodbye to the children.
Silence’s heart altered a beat, and she felt the blood rush to her face: he might just as well have said the same about her. She said casually, ‘Oh? Does she? How do you know?’
‘Well, she didn’t tell me — you know how close she can be. But it’s obvious, really. She spends a lot of time leaning out of her window, looking at the soldiers. And every time Hellier is in the same room, she follows him with her eyes. And when he speaks to her, she goes red and mumbles — and you have to admit, that isn’t like Rachael.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Silence. ‘How very perceptive of you — I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Well, no, I didn’t think you had,’ said Nat. In the dim light of the screens passage, his pale face shone with sudden mischief. ‘But I thought you ought to know. There might be trouble because of it — you know Rachael.’
‘I do indeed — and thank you for telling me,’ said Silence, feeling more than a little shaken. He must be aware of her own feelings for Nick — she was certain of it, knowing that if Nat, so subtle and observant, had seen Rachael’s heart so plain, then her own must surely also be visible.
‘Think nothing of it,’ said the boy, grinning, and went away to consult Clevinger, who was teaching him, little by little without ever really intending to, all he knew of farming. And Silence was left to ponder what he had said, and not said. How many other people had noticed? Was it common knowledge at Wintercombe, that their lady was enamoured of the enemy Captain? Were they the subject of lascivious speculation in the servants’ hall or, heaven forbid, in the taproom of the George or the Fleur-de-Lys? She trembled at the thought, and then relaxed. Nat was unusually perceptive: because he had noticed, it did not mean that anyone else had. She had not been aware of any nudges, whispers or sidelong glances, nor had she sensed any change in the attitudes of her servants towards her. Surely, if they suspected that she was more than friendly towards Hellier, they would show a lessening of respect?
Only Mally had some inkling of the situation, and had initially disapproved. Since Ridgeley’s death, however, her hostility towards Nick had been transmuted to a grudging acceptance. But her loyalty was to Silence: she would never reveal what she knew, or what she thought, to the other servants.
And anyway, Silence decided as she climbed unhappily to her chamber, there will never be anything to hide. If I am certain of anything, I am certain of that.
*
The children, with Lily as well — Silence had heard terrible tales of what might befall a tasty young dog in a prolonged siege — had gone to Wick on the afternoon of Tuesday, the twenty-ninth of July. On that same day, in the evening, a small party of New Model horse and dragoons rode over the hills from Wells to Bath, to assess the ease with which the city might be taken, for reports of the disturbances there had reached Fairfax the previous day. The city might well be ripe for the plucking, and in any event should be taken before proceeding against Bristol.
In the city, all was turmoil. The people, even those loyally disposed, had refused to bear arms any more for Sir Thomas Bridges, who had made himself heartily disliked during the time of his governorship. The reinforcements sent from Bristol had caused such an uproar that their officers, including the man intended to replace Bridges, had taken most of them back to Rupert in disgust. The troops on guard at the little gate at the end of the bridge watched with alarm as the Roundhead horse and dragoons came down the lane called Holywell just at sunset, and took up their positions less than a pistol shot from the gate. There was a brief and rather erratic exchange of fire, and Colonel Rich, the Roundhead commander, summoned Bath to surrender. The citizens waited hopefully, but Sir Thomas Bridges, mindful of Prince Rupert’s rage, refused.
Colonel Okey, in charge of the two companies of dragoons, then led his men forward. On their bellies in the gathering dusk, they crawled right up to the bridge gate, unseen by the defenders, Above them, the muskets of the Royalist soldiers protruded from holes cut in the wood. Suddenly, the dragoons leapt up, seized the ends of the weapons, and yelled for surrender.
Not surprisingly in view of the mood of fear and despondency in the city, the Royalist soldiers panicked. They left their muskets hanging from the gate and ran back along the bridge to the safety of Bath, crying that Fairfax’s men were attacking. Behind them, the dragoons fired the bridge gate and took up closer and more threatening positions on the bridge itself.
In Bath that night, all was terror and rumour and uncertainty. Believing that the entire might of the New Model Army was encircling the city, there seemed only one sensible course to take, and Sir Thomas Bridges, harassed, exhausted and despairing, capitulated at sunrise. Bath, its strong defences, its copious supplies of arms, and garrison of two hundred men, had been taken by two regiments of horse and two companies of dragoons.
The news came to Wintercombe before dinner, brought by a sympathetic countryman. Nick gave him a shilling, and posted look-outs on the roads leading to Bath, at Charterhouse Hinton and at Wellow, while two men in civilian dress were sent further, to gather news and find out what they could of Fairfax’s intentions.
That day was cool, with a brisk wind and rain threatening, and for Silence it dragged mightily. She found herself unable to concentrate on anything, her ears alert for the slightest change of emphasis in the activity outside. She missed the children terribly. She had been parted from them before, of course, and most recently when they had escaped from Ridgeley; but somehow this was different. She knew that she had done the most sensible thing, and that it would have been lunacy to have kept them with her, to suffer the privations and dangers of a siege. But still their absence left a great void in her life, still she worried about them. Were they being good? Were they eating properly? Were they unhappy without her, in a house they hardly knew, in the care of a woman who was not their mother?
