A Splendid Defiance Read online

  The post of Commander-in-Chief went to Sir Thomas Fairfax. Officers were selected, regiments reformed and uniforms designed. And because the like of it had never been seen before, it was christened the New Model Army.

  *

  At the sign of the Ragged Staff, the Radford family continued to devote itself to its own individual concerns. Samuel received and began to circulate a new batch of pamphlets decrying the Upper House’s inability to sacrifice two of its number to the common good; Jonas tormented the days with sermons while he worried about Rachel’s approaching confinement; and Abigail was suddenly catapulted into a particularly terrifying nightmare.

  It was the first day of March and they had just finished dinner. Rachel had already retired and Abigail rose, as usual, to clear the table only to be waved back into her seat by Jonas who said coldly, ‘Sit down. I have something to say which concerns you.’

  She glanced from her mother’s surprised face to Samuel’s wary one and then looked nervously back at Jonas while she waited for him to continue.

  He said, ‘This morning, I received what I can only describe as a most unexpected request. Have you any notion, Abigail, of a gentleman who might be disposed to ask for you as his wife?’

  ‘M-me?’ stammered Abigail, incredulously. ‘No.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it.’ He paused, portentously. ‘You may consider yourself both fortunate and honoured. Although he may not have quite the standing I would have liked, Thankful Barnes is an industrious man and one of God’s elect.’

  There was a sudden, appalled silence. Abigail felt the room begin to spin round her and she clutched at the table-edge.

  ‘Who?’ she asked faintly. ‘Did you say Th-Thankful Barnes?’

  ‘I did,’ came the repressive reply. ‘And while I am pleased to find you so obviously unaware of his intentions, I consider your tone unnecessarily dramatic.’

  The colour drained from Abigail’s face, leaving it almost transparent and her eyes filled with stark horror.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said, ‘I can’t marry that man. P-please, Jonas – I’m afraid of him.’

  ‘Utter folly! You talk like a child.’

  Samuel said, ‘No, she doesn’t. The fellow’s not right in the head.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ snapped Jonas. ‘I realise, of course, that you will go to any lengths to help Abigail defy me – but slander is surely going a little far?’

  ‘It isn’t slander,’ replied Samuel, devoutly hoping that it wasn’t. ‘Barnes may be one of God’s elect but he leers at Abby in the best Cavalier tradition. Last time she went up to the forge, he’d have laid hands on her if another customer hadn’t turned up in time to stop him.’

  ‘And how was it that you didn’t stop him? I presume that, since you know so much about it, you must have been there at the time?’ asked Jonas sarcastically.

  ‘Abby told me,’ admitted Samuel shortly. ‘Since then, I’ve collected the vegetables myself and it doesn’t need a genius to see that Barnes doesn’t care for the substitution.’

  ‘And does that make him insane?’

  ‘I didn’t say insane. I said not right in the head,’ responded Samuel, rising impatiently from his seat. Then, falling back on Captain Ambrose’s words, ‘A little unbalanced, if you prefer it. And I’m convinced that he is. Half the town could tell you how he treated his first wife.’

  ‘If a man is unfortunate enough to marry a girl with frivolous tendencies, it is his duty to teach her to forget them,’ announced Jonas. ‘Thankful Barnes did no more than that. And he will undoubtedly have to do it again if he takes Abigail to wife.’

  ‘No!’ Abigail came unsteadily to her feet. ‘I can’t. I can’t! He makes me feel as though – as though —’

  ‘Oh, enough! Whatever he makes you feel, the fault is almost certainly in you,’ replied Jonas distastefully. ‘But you have nothing to say in the matter and I shall give Mr Barnes my answer when I have had time to consider.’

  Alice directed a warning glance at Samuel and then spoke for the first time.

  ‘That is just as well, for there are many things to consider – such as whether, with Rachel and the coming baby to think of we can afford to let Abby go just now.’

  It was a shrewd move and Jonas paused before saying thoughtfully, ‘She need not, of course, be married at once. But you are right to mention it.’ And then, rising, ‘You may clear the table, Abigail. We will speak of this again in due course.’

  Her body ached and nausea was clawing at her throat.

  ‘Jonas – you don’t understand. I won’t do it – I can’t. Not him. Anyone but him. I – please say you’ll refuse him?’

  The humourless, intolerant face darkened with anger.

  ‘I will do as I see fit – and you will do as you’re told. Now control yourself and stop disturbing the house with your hysterical behaviour. I am going up to see my wife.’

  There was a moment of deathly hush after he had gone and Abigail looked beseechingly at Samuel and her mother.

  ‘What can I do?’ she whispered. ‘I can’t live with that man. I’d rather be dead.’

  ‘Abby!’ said Alice, compassionate but shocked.

  Samuel shook his head and limped round the table to put his arm round his sister. ‘Don’t, my dear. It will be all right, I promise. Mother knows how to handle Jonas and I can be remarkably lazy when I try – so you’ll become indispensable. And if you can only convince Rachel that you can’t wait to get away, she’ll keep you out of spite. All you have to do is be quiet and patient. Is that so hard?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Abigail, against his shoulder. ‘It is.’

  Jonas kept her in limbo for three days before announcing his decision and, in that time, Abigail began to look like a wraith, worn away by a nervous inability to eat or sleep. Samuel and Alice watched with anxiety while using every deterrent except that of open confrontation. And finally, Jonas was moved to open his mind to them all.

  He said merely, ‘I have refused Thankful Barnes’ offer for your hand, Abigail. I hope you do not give me cause to regret it.’

  ‘I’ll try not to, Jonas. Thank you,’ replied Abigail, with difficulty. ‘Please excuse me for a moment.’ And fleeing into the scullery, was helplessly and violently sick.

  *

  With characteristic efficiency, Rachel produced Jonas’ son on Wednesday March 5th at the respectable hour of four in the afternoon. He was a sound little fellow, fair like his mother but equipped [as Samuel pointed out] with lungs that promised something of his father. Jonas, after kneeling with his family to give thanks for Rachel’s safe delivery and the gift of a healthy boy, was sufficiently uplifted to open a bottle of his mother’s cherry cordial and announce that the child was to be named Hallelujah.

  Samuel stared at him in awed disbelief.

  ‘You don’t mean it.’

  ‘Why not?’ Jonas lost a little of his benevolence. ‘I consider it most appropriate. It is a Godly name and less common than many others.’

  ‘To which,’ remarked Samuel later to Abigail, ‘only an idiot would attempt a reply.’

  ‘It could be worse,’ she grinned. ‘Sarah Fuller has called her youngest Sorry-for-Sin. Is that this week’s news-sheet you have there?’

  ‘Yes.’ He continued to read, his face becoming unusually grim. Then he looked up and slowly passed the sheet to her. ‘I think you’d better read this.’

  Abigail scanned the paragraph he pointed to and then, eyes widening, she sat down to read it properly.

  The Monster Captain of Banbury: A Revelation

  Beware, O Banbury! Protect your goods, guard your womenfolk and sleep not soundly in your beds for Apollyon is in your midst. A man of Blood and Curses, whose very breath pollutes the air; the Devil’s Henchman – incestuous, vile and base. Recently nurtured in robbery and unnatural practices by the Arch-Fiend Rupert, the Monster Captain began his vicious career in boyhood with lies, spiteful slanders and the theft of a priceless jewel from his own Father. But of h
is greatest Crime, who shall dare speak? Who, in England, can believe that there exists a Creature base enough to foully Ravish his own innocent young Sister? And yet it is most Shamefully so. Steeped in Evil, Satan’s son is at large in poor Banbury; and his name is Captain Justin Ambrose. Mark it well!

  Abigail’s fingers tightened convulsively on the paper and she stared defiantly at her brother.

  ‘There’s not a word of truth in it. You know that, don’t you?’

  Samuel shrugged uneasily.

  ‘A gross exaggeration is probably nearer to the mark. These attacks have to have some basis of —’

  ‘Not this one!’ Abigail’s face grew pink with temper. ‘It’s a tissue of lies from end to end and no one who knows him at all could possibly believe it for a minute!’

  ‘Meaning that you don’t.’

  ‘No. I don’t. Never in this world. He has no family. He told me that months ago – before Christmas. No family at all, he said. So none of this can possibly be true. You must see that, surely?’

  Samuel hesitated and then said, ‘Perhaps. I don’t know. From what you’ve told me about the Captain, I’m not inclined to believe it. But it appears I’d be foolish to admit it if I did.’

  ‘And what exactly does that mean?’

  ‘It means I’d prefer you to be less emotional over the whole thing,’ he replied bluntly. ‘Try remembering who you are for once. He’s nothing to you, Abby – and he never will be.’

  Her throat closed painfully and she swallowed.

  ‘I know that. You don’t need to tell me. But it isn’t what you think. I just hate the injustice of it, that’s all. And you agree, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Samuel dryly. ‘I agree all right. But you and I are mere drops in the ocean and I don’t somehow see us turning the tide. Do you?’

  *

  Captain Ambrose did not see the Parliament’s news-sheet until late that evening. Able, with the aid of padding and gauntlets, to handle his horse, he had been given reluctant permission to accompany Sir Charles Compton’s troop on a tax-collecting mission in Warwickshire and had thus gone on his first outing since the catastrophic raid on Compton Wynyates.

  Since leaving his sick-bed, he had found himself prone to sudden fits of dizziness and crippling headaches for which the garrison surgeon – who was more at home digging out bullets and stitching up wounds – could suggest no cause. These residual symptoms, he declared airily, would undoubtedly pass in time. Justin, who suspected they might be the result of the heavy doses of opium Anne Rhodes had poured into him, hoped the surgeon was right. He had only one way of making a living and it required a reliable ability to stay on his feet. The possibility that he might be permanently incapacitated was too worrying to contemplate … and he consequently regarded the Warwickshire expedition as a sort of test.

  It was a long and full day. Justin began it with a slight detour to collect the last quarter’s taxes from Thorne Ash – where, after one horrified look at him and for the first time ever, Kate Maxwell had not only ordered him to sit down but also insisted he take a glass of her mother’s special cordial. It tasted disgusting but actually made him feel a little better.

  By the time he caught up with his fellows, Charles had learned of a rebel convoy en route from Gloucester to Warwick and gaily decided to intercept it. The men, he said, were tired of digging trenches, building bulwarks and making gunpowder and they deserved a little fun. They had it. After a circuitous ride, the convoy was eventually discovered five miles east of Tewksbury. Incapable yet of holding a sword, Justin watched enviously as his fellows swooped down on the enemy and routed them in one swift, fierce engagement. Then the Cavaliers rode joyfully back to Banbury with seventy-two sacks of broadcloth worth twenty shillings the yard, a quantity of money and silver plate and seventy prisoners complete with horses.

  Justin returned white with exhaustion and badly chafed hands but in a mood of near-contentment. Then Hugh Vaughan gave him Mercurius Britannicus to read.

  ‘I know your views on this kind of thing but you’re bound to see it sometime. Everyone else has.’

  Justin read it slowly and then read it again, the sense of it reaching him by degrees, like bubbles bursting on the surface of a pond. Then the room darkened around him as sharp flashes of pain gathered themselves into monumental pressure behind his eyes. He said oddly, ‘Why me? I’m no one. So why me?’

  Hugh gestured uncomfortably.

  ‘Why anyone? It’s just indiscriminate claptrap; unpleasant, I know – but not worth worrying about.’ He stopped as the door opened to admit Captain Frost.

  As ever, blessedly impervious to atmosphere, Ned grinned cheerfully at Justin and said, ‘You’ve seen it, then? Beats me how they dream the stuff up – or who they think is going to believe it. Still … you’ve risen tenfold in estimation here. Our lads think you’re a second Rupert. Which reminds me. He’s supposed to be coming from Stratford tomorrow to spend the night, so you’ll be able to nurture your vices together.’ He paused, looking enquiringly from Justin to Hugh. ‘What’s the matter? Have I said something I shouldn’t?’

  ‘When,’ asked Hugh acidly, ‘do you ever do anything else? How would you like it if stuff like that was written about you and your Lucy read it?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. I see.’ Ned coloured faintly and said, ‘But look, Justin, you don’t think anyone believes this, do you?’

  The blades in Justin’s head were escalating to a peak of grinding agony. He said carefully, ‘I’m extremely sorry but I’m afraid I must trouble you to help me upstairs. I have a … a slight headache.’

  The grey eyes were narrowed and opaque and the skin was stretched tight over his bones. He looked, thought Hugh, ready to collapse.

  ‘I’m not surprised. You shouldn’t have gone out today. Give me a hand, Ned – and for Christ’s sake, keep your mouth shut.’

  Justin was violently sick before they got him to bed and, by then, he was too dizzy to stand but he managed one finally piece of irony. ‘It’s a pity they can’t see their monster now, isn’t it? Another illusion shattered.’

  Outside on the landing, Ned looked gloomily at Hugh and said, ‘I’m a fool, aren’t I?’

  ‘You’re a fool,’ agreed Hugh kindly. ‘But you can’t help it. Come on, I need a drink.’

  Ned detained him with a hand on his sleeve.

  ‘Is he taking that stuff in the paper seriously or is it just that he overdid it today?’

  ‘Both, I imagine.’ Hugh paused thoughtfully. ‘But it might be as well if the men were discouraged from congratulating him on his notoriety. I saw his face when he read that piece and, though he was shocked, there was something missing.’

  ‘What?’ asked Ned blankly.

  The Welshman met his eyes squarely.

  ‘Surprise. I’d have expected him to show some surprise. But he didn’t.’

  *

  Having slept relatively little, Abigail rose very early on the following morning and sat at her bedroom window while dawn became day. The view was not inspiring. The cobbled depths of Frog Lane, the irregular carved gables on the opposite side of Shop Row and the broken remains of the Bread Cross at the near end of Butcher’s Shambles. There was nothing she had not seen a thousand times before or wished to look at now. Sighing impatiently, she started to dress.

  Fifteen minutes later, she drifted by Betty with an absent smile and out of the house into the street. The air was fresh and lightly misted with rain but it was not cold. She drew a long breath, pulled her hood over her neatly-braided hair and set off eastwards along Sheepmarket. Few people were about as yet and, of those who were, most were stall-holders preparing for Thursday’s weekly market. Abigail passed them without a glance and continued along Bridge Street to the river. The town gallows, grim but mercifully unoccupied, stood to her right and, as always, her steps quickened until it was behind her. And then she was on the bridge, with the Cherwell flowing placidly beneath her feet.

  Resting her hands on the anc
ient stone parapet, she gazed across Goose Leys to the Castle – dour, silent and forbidding in the early morning light. The new bulwarks lay stark against the original building and gave the place an unfamiliar appearance for, where the curtain wall had once run back at a polygonal angle, it now stood four-square with the moat. But to Abigail, the Castle was only the shell which housed the kernel and her thoughts lay, as they had all night, with the man who lived at the top of the south-east tower.

  A gentle plop brought her eyes down to the drifting spread of ripples on the water. Just as the surface stilled, another stone arced downwards to repeat the process. Abigail leaned over the parapet and found herself looking on a familiar, walnut head. Shock pushed her upright again and then, sparing a moment to relocate her breath, she trod carefully down the sloping path to the river bank.

  He was leaning against one of the crumbling archways and he was dressed, not in the usual buff leather, but in severely-cut claret broadcloth. His face was turned towards the opposite bank and everything about him looked damp, as if he had been there for some time. Then he heard her coming and looked sharply round so that she saw, for one throat-constricting second, the unguarded expression that previously only the river had been witness to.

  It vanished immediately. The grey eyes became shuttered and his mouth, hard and unyielding, as he said coldly, ‘Go away. There’s only an hour before breakfast and I haven’t raped anyone yet today so you’re in acute danger. Haven’t you read the paper?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

  ‘For what? Unwittingly repairing my hands so they can commit further atrocities? Or missing your chance to benefit humanity by slipping a little something into the cherry cordial? If only you’d known!’