Читать книгу Intrigued - Bertrice Small - Страница 8

Chapter 1

“I hate Master Cromwell, and his pocky Roundheads!” Lady Autumn Leslie declared vehemently. “There is no fun in England or Scotland anymore, thanks to him.”

“Autumn! Dammit! How many times have I warned you to mind your chattering tongue?” her brother, Charles Stuart, Duke of Lundy, said irritably.

“Oh, Charlie, who is to hear me but the servants?” Autumn answered her elder brother pertly.

“Not all the servants can be trusted these days,” the duke replied in soft tones. “Nothing is now as it was. This is not Glenkirk, where the loyalty is first to your father and only secondly to the state. The king will one day be back on his throne, but until then we must be discreet. Remember, sister, who my father was, and my uncle, King Charles, God assoil his soul. Remember that while I am the not-so-royal Stuart, I am a Stuart nonetheless. Cromwell and his ilk will never trust me, nor should they, but I must protect my family until this madness is lifted from the land, and my cousin, Charles II, returns to England to govern us in peace.”

“But what are we to do until then?” Autumn demanded. “These Puritans are dreadful people, Charlie. They are joyless with their edicts. No dancing! No bowls upon the green! No Maying on May Day! No Christmas! Nothing that would bring a person pleasure, or happiness. And Scotland is, I fear, just as bad. Still, once I am back at Glenkirk it will be a little better, especially when the winter sets in, and no one can know what we do. Papa pays little heed to the Covenanters and their dolorous ways. When do you think I can go home?”

The duke shook his head. “I do not know, Autumn. With Cousin Charles on Scotland’s throne now, and a battle brewing between him and Cromwell, I cannot honestly say when it will be safe for you to travel north. Are you not happy here at Queen’s Malvern with us?”

“I love it here!” Autumn replied. “I always have, Charlie.”

“Then what is it that makes you so restless?” he asked.

“Charlie! I am going to be nineteen at the end of next month,” Autumn wailed. “And I have no betrothed, no husband, no man at all who takes my fancy. I am quite as bad if not worse than our sister Fortune. At least she had the opportunity to find a husband, but what chance have I amid all this civil strife? There is no court, and even family gatherings are mandated as to size now by the Parliament. How am I to find a husband before I am too old?”

“Nineteen is hardly old,” he chuckled, reaching out to take her hand up to kiss it. “You are a beautiful girl, little sister, and one day the right man will come along to sweep you off your feet, steal your heart, and make Papa and all your brothers jealous.”

“I wish I could be as certain of that as you, Charlie,” Autumn said. She sighed deeply. “Bess was still sixteen when you married her, and Rosamund was seventeen when she wed our brother Henry. I am old, Charlie! Eighteen going on nineteen, and not a suitor in sight, nor is there likely to be one. I hate Master Cromwell!”

Charles Frederick Stuart laughed, unable to help himself. His baby sister was deliciously dramatic, and yet she did have a point. Theirs was hardly a fit society nowadays for a duke’s daughter to find a husband. There were men a-plenty who would have Autumn for her wealth and beauty, no matter her age; but it had always been his family’s policy to allow its daughters to wed for love. Certainly Autumn should have the same chance as their two elder sisters had had.

“Mother will know what to do,” he told Autumn in an attempt to reassure her.

“If I can ever get back to Glenkirk,” she replied gloomily.

“The gossip is that there has been a battle in Scotland, and Parliament’s forces have won out over King Charles II’s army. Rumors, however, aren’t fact. Perhaps I shall go into Worcester later this week and see what I can learn,” the duke said.

“Worcester? You are going into Worcester? When?” The young Duchess of Lundy came into the room with two of her children. “You must see if you can find us some thread, Charlie. We have not a bit and are at a loss to mend, or hem, or make Sabrina and her brothers new clothing. They are outgrowing everything. At least we have cloth, thanks to your frugal family, but without thread we are helpless.”

Bess Stuart was a lovely woman with light brown hair filled with golden highlights and warm gray-blue eyes. The youngest daughter of the Earl of Welk, she and Charlie Stuart had fallen in love at first sight. She had just turned sixteen, and he at twenty-six was considered a rake and a rogue by those at the court who knew him. Still, his amber eyes had met Bess Lightbody’s sweet gaze, and his heart was immediately engaged. He began to play her most assiduous court.

The Earl of Welk and his wife had been horrified that Charles Frederick Stuart, the late Prince Henry’s bastard offspring with the beautiful but notorious Jasmine Leslie—herself the dubious member of an infamous family—a young man openly accepted and beloved by the king and all his kin, despite his shameful birth, should seek to pay his addresses to their youngest daughter. They sent Bess home to Dorset, certain that would end the matter. They had underestimated their opponent.

Bess had not been gone from court a week when she was recalled by royal command to be one of the queen’s maids-of-honor. The Earl of Welk sought to protect his daughter from the young Duke of Lundy’s insistent advances by seeking a suitable marital alliance with a thoroughly respectable family, preferably one with similar religious and political leanings. Upright, modest, prudent people by whom his daughter could be guided in order to become a dutiful and obedient wife. Again he did not take his adversary seriously enough.

Learning from Bess of her father’s plans, Charlie had sought aid from his uncle, King Charles I. Understanding his nephew’s plight, the king had called the Earl and Countess of Welk into his presence.

“My nephew, the Duke of Lundy, has told me that he wishes to wed your daughter Elizabeth,” the king began. “He has asked me to act for him in this matter. While your antecedents, my lord, hardly make your daughter a suitable match for Charlie, we are of a mind to allow it, for we love the lad right well. And he has never before asked a favor of us, unlike so many others who people our court. Bring your daughter to us tomorrow at this same hour. If she agrees to the match, we will permit it.” The king smiled one of his very rare smiles, then waved the Earl and Countess of Welk from his august presence.

They backed away, bowing and curtysing, but once outside the king’s privy chamber the Earl of Welk gave vent to his anger. He sent his wife to the queen’s apartments to fetch their daughter and bring her to their small London house, where he would speak with her. Bess was not going to marry that bastard, he vowed silently to himself. And the king’s inference that the Lightbody blood was not the equal of a bastard, royal or no, infuriated him.

When the women finally joined him, he told his daughter of their audience with the king. Then he said, “But you will not wed him, Bess! You will tell the king you do not want to marry his nephew. Do you understand me?”

“I will say no such thing, my lord,” Bess answered. “I love Charlie, and he loves me. I will tell the king, aye, I will have his nephew for my husband, and gladly!”

“You will not!” the Earl of Welk shouted at his daughter.

“I will!” she replied defiantly.

“I will beat you black and blue if you continue to challenge my authority over you, daughter,” he told her angrily.

“If you do, I shall show the king the stripes you have inflicted upon my back,” she threatened.

“Oh!” The Countess of Welk collapsed into a chair, her countenance pale, her hand fluttering over her heart.

“Now look what you have done to your mother,” the earl said.

“She is only surprised that I have spoken up as she has herself longed to do all these years of her marriage to you, my lord,” Bess bluntly told her father. “Please, sir, be fair. Charlie has never before sought to wed a lady. He loves me enough to ask the king’s aid in making our dream come true. We love one another.”

“Are you with child?” her father demanded angrily.

“Oh!” The Countess of Welk closed her eyes in despair.

“What?” Bess looked astounded at her father’s words.

“Have you allowed this Stuart bastard liberties?” her father said. “Have you lain with him? My question is plainspoken, girl.”

“Your query is outrageous and insulting, sir,” Bess said. “I have not allowed the duke any liberties. Nor have I shamed myself or him by behaving in a wanton manner, laying with him without benefit of clergy. How dare you even suggest such a thing, my lord!”

“I am your sire, and it is my right to make certain that you are chaste, particularly here at court, where gossip can ruin a maid’s reputation even if it isn’t the truth,” the earl replied. “I only seek to protect you, Bess. You are my youngest child.”

“I thank you for your concern, my lord,” Bess said dryly. “Now with your permission I must return to St. James. The queen allowed me but two hours away, and my time grows short.” She curtsied and departed her parents.

Having no choice, the Earl and Countesss of Welk grudgingly accepted their daughter’s decision in the matter. Charles Frederick Stuart and Elizabeth Anne Lightbody were married in the king’s own chapel at Windsor Castle on the third day of May in the year 1639. They had withdrawn immediately from the court, visiting only rarely thereafter, content to remain in the countryside at Queen’s Malvern, Charlie’s estate. And to everyone’s surprise, the ebulient and charming not-so-royal Stuart was a loyal and devoted husband.

“What color thread?” the duke asked his wife in response to her request.

“Whatever you can find,” Bess said. “But try and find some light color. There will be black for certain, for these Puritans are forever mending their garments until they are more thread than fabric. However, try and find something light,” Bess instructed him.

“Can I go to Worcester with you, Papa?” the duke’s eldest son, Frederick, asked his father.

“I should welcome your company, Freddie,” his father replied.

“When?” the boy queried.

“In a few days’ time,” the duke promised.

“Let me go too,” Autumn said. “I’m so bored.”

“Nay,” her brother said. “It is not safe on the road for a young woman these days, sister.”

“I could dress like a boy,” Autumn answered him.

“No one, little sister, would ever mistake you for a boy,” Charlie said, his eyes lingering a long moment on his sister’s shapely young bosom. “It would be impossible to disguise those treasures, Autumn. Like our mother, you have been generously endowed by nature.”

“Don’t be vulgar, Charlie,” she snapped at him.

Bess giggled, unable to help herself. Then, managing to control herself, she said, “We’ll find something fun to do, sister, while Charlie is in Worcester. The apples are ready to press, and we can help with the cider making. Sabrina loves cider making.”

“Your daughter is nine, Bess. At nine little girls love just about everything. Why did the pocky Parliament have to behead King Charles and declare this commonwealth? I want to go to court, but there can be no court without a king. God’s blood, I hope your cousin young King Charles comes home to rule us soon! Everyone I speak to is sick unto death of Master Cromwell and his ilk. Why doesn’t someone behead him? They called old King Charles a traitor, but it seems to me that those who murder God’s chosen monarch are the real traitors.”

“Autumn!” her brother pleaded, anguished.

“Oh, no one is listening, Charlie,” Autumn said airily.

He shook his head wearily. He had never thought when his mother asked him to allow Autumn to visit this summer that she would prove to be such a handful. He kept thinking of her as his baby sister, but as she had so succinctly pointed out to him earlier, she was going to be nineteen in another month’s time. He wondered why his mother and stepfather had not found a suitable husband for Autumn; but then he remembered the difficulties they had had marrying off his two elder sisters. And who the hell was there in the eastern Highlands for the Duke of Glenkirk’s daughter to marry? Autumn had needed to go to court, but these last years of civil war had made such a visit impossible, and then his Uncle Charles had been executed. Now what English court there was existed in exile, sometimes in France, sometimes in Holland. He didn’t know what they were going to do with this sister, but he suspected they had better do it soon, for Autumn was ripe for bedding and could easily find her way into mischief.

The day he had planned on going to Worcester a messenger from Glenkirk arrived before dawn. It was early October. The clansman had had a difficult time eluding the parliamentary forces in Scotland but, moving with great caution, he had finally managed to cross over the border. From there he had made his way easily to Queen’s Malvern. Grim-faced and obviously quite exhausted, he told the duke his news was for Lady Autumn first. The duke sent for his wife and sister, who came quickly, still in her dressing gown, hearing her visitor was a Glenkirk man.

“Ian More! Has my father sent you to escort me home?” Autumn asked excitedly. “How is my mother? ’Tis good to see one of our own.”

Wordlessly—and, the duke noted, with tears in his eyes—the messenger handed the letter to Autumn. “ ’Tis from yer mam, m’lady.”

Eagerly Autumn broke the seal of the missive and opened it. Her eyes scanned the parchment, her face growing paler as her eyes flew over the written words, a cry of terrible anguish finally escaping her as she slumped against her brother, obviously terribly distraught, the letter slipping from her hand to fall to the carpet. She was shaking with emotion.

The clansman picked up the parchment, handing it to the duke, who now had an arm about his sister. Charlie quickly read his mother’s words to her daughter, his handsome face contorting in a mixture of sorrow and anger. Finally laying aside the letter, he said to the clansman, “You will remain until you are rested, Ian More, or does my mother wish you to stay in England?”

“I’ll go back as soon as the beast and I have had a few days’ rest, m’lord. Forgive me for being the bearer of such woeful tidings.”

“Stable your horse, and then go to the kitchens for your supper. Smythe will find you a place to sleep,” the duke told the messenger. Then he turned to comfort his sister, who had begun to weep piteously.

“What is it?” Bess asked her husband, realizing that the news the Glenkirk man had brought was very serious.

“My f-father i-is d-d-dead!” Autumn sobbed. “Ohh, damn Master Cromwell and his parliamentary forces to hell!” She pulled from her brother’s gentle embrace and ran from the family hall where they had been seated.

“Oh, Charlie, I am so sorry!” Bess said. She looked after her young sister-in-law. “Shall I go after her?”

The duke shook his head. “Nay. Autumn considers such a public show of emotion on her part a weakness. She has been that way since her childhood. She will want to be alone.”

“What happened?” Bess queried her husband.

“Jemmie Leslie died at Dunbar in defense of my cousin, King Charles. He should not have gone, not at his age, not with the history of misfortune the Stuarts always seem to visit on the Leslies of Glenkirk, but you know what an honorable man he was. He has paid for his loyalty with his life. Mama writes that she will come to England before winter to live in the dower house at Cadby, which is hers. She asks that Autumn remain with us, or go to Henry until she comes. My half-brother, Patrick Leslie, is devastated by his papa’s death, and chary of the responsibilites he must now take on as Glenkirk’s new master. Mama feels he will better assume those obligations if she is not there for him to fall back upon. She is right, of course.”

“But how will she be able to travel under the circumstances?” Bess fretted.

He chuckled. “She will find a way, I guarantee you, Bess. When Mama wants something, little dares to stand in her way. It is Autumn we must worry about. She is not above going to find Cromwell and attempting to kill him herself. We will have to dissuade her from any and all thoughts of instant revenge.”

“And just how will you do that?” his wife asked him.

“Autumn is loyal first to the family. I shall tell her that any foolishness on her part will reflect on all of us. On the Leslies of Glenkirk, and on me and mine in particular, on India and Oxton, on the Southwoods, and the cousins at Clearfield and Blackthorne, on poor, plump old Great-Aunt Willow and her brood; on us all. She will swallow her anger, even if it kills her, for their sakes. That much I can guarantee. And when Mama arrives she will know just what to do to distract Autumn from any thought of revenge. Mama has always been clever that way,” the duke said. “She is the only one who can control my little sister. Papa, heaven help him, adored and spoiled her terribly.”

Autumn kept to her bedchamber for the next several days, her maidservant, Lily, bringing her meals which, for the first two days, were sent back uneaten. On the third day Autumn nibbled a bit from her tray, and by the end of the week she was once again eating. She came from her room to speak with Ian More before he began his long ride back to Scotland, and Glenkirk.

“Were you at Dunbar?” she asked him as they sat before the fire in the family hall.

“I was, m’lady,” he answered her somberly.

“How many went, and how many came home?” she asked.

“Hundred and fifty rode out. Thirty-six rode home, m’lady,” was his reply. “ ’Twere only luck any of us came back.”

“My father had no luck that day,” Autumn noted aloud.

“Stuarts ain’t nae been fortunate for our people, m’lady. Worse, this new king dinna even look like a Stuart. He be a dark laddie, m’lady, but he hae his family’s charm. Yer da was nae happy to follow the Stuarts, but he were a man of honor, Jemmie Leslie, God bless him!”

Autumn nodded. “Aye,” she said. Then she handed Ian More a sealed packet. “Give my mother this when you return. I will await her coming here at Queen’s Malvern.”

“Will we ever see ye at Glenkirk again, m’lady?” he asked her, his plain face concerned.

Autumn shook her head wearily. “I do not know, Ian More. I honestly do not know. It certainly did not occur to me when I left Glenkirk last April that I should never again see it. I know not what will happen to me now that my father is dead.”

“The new duke will look after ye, m’lady,” Ian said firmly.

“Patrick?” Autumn laughed for the first time since she had learned of her father’s death. “Patrick will have all he can do to look after himself and Glenkirk, Ian More. Papa’s death will have shocked my brother by its suddenness, but even more horrific for him will be his precipitous ascent to all the responsibility Glenkirk entails. Patrick will have no time for me. I am better off, though not greatly so, remaining in England with Charlie and Henry.”

A small smile touched the clansman’s lips. Lady Autumn Leslie was far more astute than he would have previously given her credit for; but then, lassie or nae, she was a Leslie. Leslie women were ever noted for being resourceful, and intelligent. Obviously the lass was finally growing up, and about time, he considered. He arose from his seat opposite her and bowed neatly. “I’ll deliver yer message to yer mam as quickly as I can, m’lady. Hae ye any word for yer brother?”

“Tell him I wish him good fortune, and God bless,” Autumn replied. “Tell him I hope we will meet again one day.”

Ian More felt tears pricking his eyelids. Damn Covenanters! he thought irritably. Why could they not all be content to leave everything as it was instead of fighting, and costing Scotland more sons and future generations? Why did their beloved duchess and her daughter have to flee from their home? Damn the Covenanters! Damn the Puritans, and damn the royal Stuarts as well! He swallowed hard. “I’ll deliver yer kind words to Duke Patrick,” he told the girl. “Take care of yerself, m’lady.”

“And you also, Ian More,” Autumn replied. “God be with you on your return journey. Take no chances.”

“I won’t, m’lady,” but they both knew he lied. Ian More would do whatever he had to, to return to Glenkirk and deliver his messages as quickly as he could.

It was almost the end of October when the Duke of Lundy and his eldest son finally traveled into the town of Worcester, a good day’s ride from Queen’s Malvern.

“We’ll be back in time for your birthday, and I promise to bring you a fine gift,” he told his sister.

“I’m not going to celebrate my birthday any longer,” Autumn told him dourly. “At least not until I am a married woman. I shall remain eighteen until then, Charlie, but if you should like to bring me a gift because you love me, then I shall accept it,” she told him, a twinkle in her eyes.

“You shall have your gift because I love you, sister,” he assured her. He was relieved to see that Autumn was shedding her initial grief over her father’s death. She would never forget Jemmie Leslie, but she realized life must continue onward. Hopefully their mother would arrive before winter set in, and together she and Autumn would heal. Charles Frederick Stuart could but imagine the sorrow the Duchess of Glenkirk was experiencing now. She had lost two husbands before she was twenty. His own father, Prince Henry Stuart, who had been her lover, had died two months after his own birth. She had been reluctant to remarry, but Jemmie Leslie would not take no for an answer. They had been wed for thirty-five years. How would she go on without him?

He rode to Worcester with his seven-year-old son by his side, surrounded by his own men-at-arms. Worcestershire was royalist country, but it did not hurt to be careful. About them the countryside lay peaceful in the mid-autumn sunshine. The fields were harvested, and the gleaners busily at work in them. The orchards had been picked clean of their apples and pears. Cattle and sheep grazed on the fading green hillsides. They reached the town just before sunset, putting up at The Crown and Stag, a large, comfortable inn where the duke was well known.

They went to church the following morning in the cathedral by the river. Freddie was wide-eyed at the great altar, the soaring arches, and the magnificent stained-glass windows. Afterwards they set about to find the thread his wife had requested. It was more difficult than he had anticipated, but finally in the shop of a small and insignificant mercer they found thread. A great deal of black, as Bess had warned him, but still a goodly supply of white and colors. The Duke of Lundy bought as much as the mercer would let him have, paying a premium gladly for it, however. Still, who knew when he would get into town again, or if this mercer would even still have thread.

He spent the rest of the day showing his young son about the beautiful town. Frederick Stuart had never been to Worcester before. In fact, he had been nowhere other than his relations’ homes. Seeing his son had a good supper, Charlie put the lad to bed. Then he went to join his friends, which was his true reason for coming to Worcester. When they could, the local gentlemen met to exchange news and gossip about the civil war, and the latest of Cromwell’s edicts. The men sat together in a discreet private room, safe from spies and protected by the innkeeper, who was an ardent royalist.

“They say Dunbar was a debacle, and the king was beaten by an army a quarter the size of his,” Lord Hailey remarked. “How the hell could such a thing happen? The rumor is, the king will leave Scotland and go to his sister’s court in Holland, or to his mother in Paris.”

“In answer to your first question, Hailey, the Scots left their position of strength in the hills to come down to the plain. They did it once before at the first battle of Dunbar, several hundred years ago. They do not, it seems, learn from their mistakes. They lost that first battle for the same reason,” the Duke of Lundy told his companions.

“How do you know so much about it, Charlie?” asked his friend, Lord Moreland.

“My mother sent a messenger down from Scotland to tell my sister that her father had been killed at Dunbar. The messenger was one of the few survivors from my stepfather’s troop. He told me all about the battle. When Jemmie Leslie fell, his people took his body and withdrew. You know the reputation Cromwell’s men have for piking the wounded, and stealing everything they can from the bodies. The Glenkirk men didn’t intend to leave their duke to such tender mercies. They took his body, gathered up the horses, and made their way home.”

“Jemmie Leslie dead? I can hardly believe it,” Lord Moreland said.

“God rest him,” Lord Hailey, who had been the Duke of Glenkirk’s contemporary, replied. “I remember him trying to court your mother, and hunting with your grandfather and uncles. He was a good man! Damn Cromwell and his revolution!”

“You sound like my sister,” Charlie said with a small chuckle, “although she refers to ‘Cromwell. and his pocky Roundheads.’ ”

“Not publicly, I hope,” Lord Hailey said, concerned.

“I have warned her about curbing her tongue,” the duke said. “It will be better when our mother arrives.”

“Your mother is coming down from Scotland? God’s blood, man! She’ll never make it with all those parliamentary troopers running amuck about the countryside. Can you not stop her?” Lord Hailey demanded.

“Nay, I cannot,” Charlie said simply. “She’ll travel well protected, I assure you. As for the rumors of my cousin, Charles, fleeing Scotland, put no stock in it. Charles has not yet been properly crowned. He will remain at least until that notable event has taken place.”

“But Cromwell’s people hold Edinburgh,” Lord Moreland reasoned, draining his tankard of wine.

“Scots kings are traditionally crowned at Scone, and our forces hold Scone,” the duke answered.

“And when the king is formally crowned, will Scotland rise up to aid him?” Lord Plympton said.

“I don’t know,” Charlie said quietly, and he refilled his own tankard. “Scotland has been torn for years by religious strife. I would not be surprised if they had not had enough of war and desire nothing more than peace. If this desire is stronger than their nationalism, and loyalty to King Charles II, then we in England must take up the king’s banner to rid ourselves of these Roundheads and Puritans.”

The air was blue with the haze from their pipes as the men smoked their Virginia tobacco, drank wine and October ale, and talked among themselves. The English were, they knew, just as tired of war. Would anyone have the energy to overthrow Cromwell and the Parliamentarians? Most of them had not trusted the Scots Stuart kings who had followed old Queen Bess almost fifty years ago. Still, this second Charles Stuart had been born in England and was well liked. He was, to their minds, the Stuarts’ first real English king. There were those sitting among them who considered that if the late Prince Henry, who had been King James I’s eldest son, had been permitted to wed with the beautiful widowed Marchioness of Westleigh, now Jasmine Leslie, it would have been this Charles Frederick Stuart seated with them here tonight who would have been their king. And he would not have alienated the parliament and their Puritan allies the way his uncle, Charles I, had done. Charles Frederick Stuart would not have lost his head.

“So,” grumbled Lord Plympton, “we must sit here helpless while we are governed by a bunch of commoners who have had the temerity to dissolve the House of Lords and claim to have abolished our monarchy. Bah, say I, to all of them!”

His companions laughed. They felt just as helpless as did their companion, but for now they were forced to wait for their king. Suddenly the door to their private room flew open to admit the plump and breathless Lord Billingsly.

“Get you home, those of you who can!” he gasped. “There are Roundhead troopers been seen in the area. And the rumor is, they are being led by Sir Simon Bates, the cold-hearted devil who slaughtered Sir Gerald Croft’s family over in Oxfordshire!”

“Who told you that, Billingsly?” Lord Moreland demanded.

“I saw the Roundheads myself as I rode toward the town. Believe you me, I got behind the nearest hedge as fast as I could,” came the honest reply. “I’m not of a mind to make my wife a widow yet, gentlemen.”

“She’d be the merriest widow in England, Puritans or no,” murmured Lord Moreland to the Duke of Lundy.

“Damnation!” Charlie swore. “I can’t leave for Queen’s Malvern until the morning, for there is no moon to light the road. Bess is alone with Autumn and the children.”

“Billingsly may be mistaken,” Lord Moreland soothed his friend.

“I’m not!” came the indignant response. “Get home as quickly as you can, my lord duke, though they did not seem to be headed in your direction. Still, I would want to be with my family if they came my way.”

“I’ll go at first light,” Charlie said.

“What about your little lad?” Moreland asked.

“Freddie comes with me,” the duke said. “His mother would have a fit if I left him behind, even for safety’s sake. Jesu! I hope those bastards don’t come near Queen’s Malvern. My sister will be unable to keep her temper, especially with her father now dead at Cromwell’s hands. God have mercy on us all, gentlemen. We’ll meet again when we can, though the lord knows when that will be.”

The duke, his son, and their men departed Worcester just before first light the following morning. At that same time a cowherd in a field at Queen’s Malvern saw the troop of soldiers coming toward him in the distance and ran as fast as he could for the house, shouting as he went to warn anyone within hearing of his voice.

“Roundheads! Roundheads!” the cowherd yelled at the top of his voice. “Roundheads coming over the hill!” He dashed through the kitchen gardens into the buttery with his news.

A serving wench ran up the stairs from the kitchens to warn the rest of the house. The duchess hurried from her bedchamber to the nurseries. The nursemaids already had Sabrina and little Willy up, and were dressing them as quickly as they could.

“Take the children into the gardens and hide,” Bess said.

“No, Mama!” Sabrina cried. “I want to be with you!”

“You will go to the gardens with Mavis and Clara,” the duchess said firmly, and hurried from the nurseries.

“What is happening?” Autumn came from her room with Lily in her wake.

“Roundheads,” Bess said.

“In Worcester?”

“They send out raiding parties now and again to frighten the royalist population,” her sister-in-law replied. “Perhaps you should go with the children.”

“Nay, I’ll stay with you, Bess. What of the valuables?”

“We buried them months ago in the rose gardens,” Bess replied with a twinkle. “They’ll probably steal what’s here anyway, but they can. I’ll risk no life or limb of any of our people in defense of things.”

There came a thunderous knocking on the door of the house as the two young women hurried down the staircase. Smythe, the majordomo, ran to answer the fierce summons, unbarring the door and drawing it open.

“Ye took yer own good time,” the Roundhead trooper said, pushing Smythe into the hall. Then, raising his musket, he smashed it savagely into the majordomo’s head.

The Duchess of Lundy screamed with horror as the faithful servant fell to the floor, blood pouring from his wound. She ran forward. “What have you done?” she cried. “He meant you no harm! Who is your commanding officer? I shall report you for this act of barbarity!”

The trooper raised his musket and fired his weapon. A bright blossom of scarlet bloomed over Bess’s heart, and she collapsed to the floor quite dead. Autumn froze where she stood in the shadows of the hallway. She instinctively knew that her ability to remain silent was her key to survival. She could feel Lily behind her, shaking with fright. The trooper knelt over Bess’s body and began pulling her rings from her fingers.

A second man stepped through the doorway of the house, but he was elegantly if soberly garbed. “What are you about, Watkins?” he demanded. He was tall with cold eyes.

“Just a bit of looting, sir. ’Tis permitted,” he said, looking up at the gentleman.

Autumn stepped forward. “Are you this man’s superior?” she said in haughty tones.

The gentleman bowed, removing his hat. “I am, madame.”

“He has murdered two people in cold blood!” Autumn almost shouted. She bent and snatched Bess’s rings from the surprised trooper. “Give me those, you thieving murderer!” Straightening herself up, she glared at the gentleman. “That is the Duchess of Lundy, whom this monster killed when she protested the murder of her servant. Smythe but opened the door, and this creature pushed into the hallway and battered him to death. How dare you allow your men to enter a peaceful house and wreak such havoc, sir!” She shoved her sister-in-law’s rings into her pocket.

“And you are, madame?” the gentleman asked sternly.

“Lady Autumn Leslie, daughter of the Duke of Glenkirk, sister to the Duke of Lundy, whose house this is,” Autumn replied. “Is it the policy of this so-called commonwealth to invade the houses of its citizens to loot and kill? And who the hell are you that you have such little control over your men?” she shouted at him.

“Sir Simon Bates, madame, at your service,” he responded, his eyes sweeping over the young woman. She was very beautiful, her dark hair tumbling about the quilted burgundy satin of her dressing gown.

“What are you going to do about this animal?” Autumn demanded.

“He will be punished, I assure you, madame,” Sir Simon responded.

“An eye for an eye,” Autumn said grimly. “I want it done now! Give me your pistol, sir, and I will do it myself!”

“Would you really?” Sir Simon was suddenly amused. The girl was distraught, of course. She would not really kill Watkins in cold blood, but to appease her, he handed her his pistol. She probably wouldn’t even know how to use a weapon. Then, to his great surprise, Autumn cocked the pistol and, jamming the barrel between the trooper’s eyes, shot him dead. “My God!” he said, astounded, as she calmly handed him back his pistol.

Watkins’s body hit the floor with a muffled thump.

“You thought I wouldn’t do it, didn’t you?” Autumn said quietly.

“Who taught you to shoot?” Sir Simon asked her, amazed by what had just happened.

“My father, whom your people killed at Dunbar,” Autumn answered him coldly. “Are you going to arrest me? I don’t care if you do!”

“I should,” Sir Simon said slowly, “but I will not, madame. As you have so succinctly put it, an eye for an eye. Besides, Watkins was of little import. He was but cannon fodder, and would have been killed sooner or later. And then, too, there is the matter of the pistol, which I gave you. While I did indeed not believe you would actually shoot the scum, I must accept my responsibility for Watkins’s execution.”

“Remove him from this house,” Autumn said in hard tones. “I will not allow him to be buried on the same lands in which poor Bess will be interred. Dig your grave by the side of the public road. This animal has widowed a good man and orphaned three children, sir. Take him, and be gone from Queen’s Malvern!” Autumn could feel her legs beginning to tremble, but she stiffened her spine. These Roundheads and their arrogant captain would not make her cry.

“Where is the plate?” Sir Simon asked.

“How should I know?” she replied angrily. “I am but a guest in this house, sir. My sister-in-law was prepared to let you take whatever you desired. She said no life was worth mere things, but you have taken two innocent lives. And having done so, you are now prepared to rob the dead?” She shrugged scornfully. “Take whatever you want, sir. I will not impede your thievery.”

“Madame, your tongue is sharper than my sword,” he told her.

She stared coldly at him, and he realized with surprise that one of her eyes was a clear leaf green and the other a bright turquoise blue. Fascinated, he wished suddenly that they had met in another time and place. He bowed politely to her. “I will leave this house in peace, madame, but I must take some of your livestock to feed my men.”

Becket, who was Smythe’s assistant, came running into the hall, shouting, “They’ve fired the east wing, m’lady!” He stopped short, seeing the three bodies, two of whom he recognized. “Oh, Jesu, God!” he said, and his glance went to Autumn. “M’lady?”

“Form a bucket brigade and do what you can to save the house,” Autumn said grimly. Then she turned to Sir Simon. “Take your dead and anything else you want, but go! You have done enough damage here for a lifetime, but your life will be worth nothing when my brother returns and sees his wife murdered, his house a ruin!”

“Your brother is a Stuart, is he not?” Sir Simon said.

Autumn nodded.

“Then I feel no guilt for what has happened here today, Lady Autumn. You Scots and your Stuarts have been a blight upon England since you inherited old Bess’s throne. I feel no shame for the death of a Stuart, madame,” he told her coldly.

Autumn slapped him as hard as she could, leaving a large red welt upon Sir Simon Bates’s handsome face. “My sister-in-law, sir, was English, as is my brother, for all his paternity. Charles was born here in this house. As for Bess, she was the Earl of Welk’s youngest daughter. He is one of your own. I shall be certain to tell him exactly how his innocent child died at the hands of your Roundheads, Sir Simon. You think to terrify us with these raids, but all you have succeeded in doing is hardening our resolve to restore the monarchy. God Save the King!”

“If I were not aware that you are suffering from shock, madame, I would slay you myself for the traitor you are,” he replied, rubbing his injured cheek. “Others will not be so caring of you, lady.”

“If I had a weapon, sir, I should slay you for the traitor you are,” Autumn answered him bravely.

Sir Simon laughed in spite of himself. What a bewitching little wildcat Lady Autumn Leslie was. He envied the man who would one day bed her, and wished he might be that man. “Good day, madame,” he said, bowing once again as he put his hat back on his head. Then he bent to hoist Watkins’s body over his broad shoulder, departing through the open door.

She stood stock still, watching the Roundheads and their captain as they rode down the gravel driveway of Queen’s Malvern, driving several sheep and cattle ahead of them; chickens, turkeys, ducks, and geese squawking indignantly as they were tied and slung over saddles. Her gaze moved to the east wing, where the servants were gallantly battling to save that part of the house and prevent the fire from spreading any farther.

“Autumn, what has happened?” Her niece, Sabrina, was unexpectedly by her side. Then, seeing her mother, Sabrina screamed. “Mama!” She clutched at Autumn, burying her face in her aunt’s skirts. “Mama,” she sobbed.

“She is dead, Brie,” Autumn said, and hearing the words aloud from her own lips, she collapsed onto the floor, cradling her niece while they both wept uncontrollably.

It was there Charles Frederick Stuart found them when he finally reached his home less than an hour later.