A Splendid Defiance Page 17

  ‘I meant,’ said Abigail steadily, ‘that I’m sorry such lies were written about you.’

  ‘Lies?’ He uncoiled from the bridge and advanced on her with brilliant eyes. ‘My dear girl … you aren’t saying you believe me a poor, maligned victim of circumstance, are you? Whatever will you think of next? No wonder Jonas is disappointed in you.’

  She stared at him helplessly and then said, ‘I don’t blame you for being angry, but —’

  His hands shot out, gripping her arms and, even through the thickness of her cloak, he made sure that it hurt.

  ‘You are deluding yourself. Shall I prove it to you?’

  There was a pause. And then, ‘I’m not sure what you mean. But I do know you’ve no intention of hurting me.’

  He looked down into dark eyes that, though troubled, held no fear and his hands fell slowly away from her. Then, in a very different tone, he said, ‘There are days when even the best of us are inclined to be too clever for our own good and this is one of them. Go home, Abigail. I’m not fit company for anyone – and, if you’re seen with me, my unfortunate reputation will be enhanced at the cost of yours. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why don’t you go?’

  She neither spoke nor moved away.

  Justin gave a short, humourless laugh.

  ‘Of course. How stupid of me. You’re waiting for a confession, aren’t you? It’s written all over your face.’

  Flushing, Abigail tilted her head sharply and felt her hood slide off. She ignored it and said, ‘I just thought it might help you to talk. I’ve already made it plain that I don’t think you have anything to confess.’

  ‘And I’ve already made it plain that the most helpful thing you can do is to leave me alone,’ he snapped. ‘Or, if you’re really desperate to brighten my day, go home and stew a few toadstools for Jonas’ breakfast.’

  She recognised his desire to be as difficult as possible but the manner of it was outside her experience and she cast around desperately to find the key. Then, thinking she had it, she said deviously, ‘Jonas is a father. The baby was born yesterday and it’s a boy. They’re going to call him Hallelujah.’

  ‘Really?’ Justin folded sardonic arms. ‘By all means, let’s make polite conversation. Hasn’t the weather been mild recently? It’s quite like spring. And what a pretty spot this is. Do you come here often?’

  His irony went on and on and, unable to either leave him or bear with him, Abigail wilted beneath it. Finally, in exactly the same abrasively courteous tone, he said, ‘And what have you done with your cap?’

  ‘What?’ she asked weakly.

  ‘Your cap. That lamentably unflattering piece of white starch you usually wear on your head. Not that its absence isn’t a distinct improvement. And if you stopped torturing your hair into a severity that nature plainly never intended, the transformation would probably be complete. What – nothing to say? Aren’t you even going to ask how my hands are?’

  ‘Of course. I was just waiting for the chance to get a word in. Are they still painful?’

  ‘Not so much – except when I grasp young ladies brutally by the arm. Here – see for yourself. Still decidedly tender but definitely on the mend, thanks to you.’ He held out his badly flawed palms for her inspection and added abruptly, ‘I told you that I have no family – and in every sense that matters, that is true. I don’t have a blood-sister and never have done but, when my father re-married, I acquired a step-sister – on whom I have never laid so much as a finger.’

  Abigail’s eyes flew to his face and her breath leaked slowly away. She wondered whether this appalling habit he had of throwing things at her when she least expected them was a calculated one. His eyes met hers and she knew that it was.

  ‘Why do you do that?’ she asked a shade crossly. ‘You are as nasty as you can possibly be and —’

  ‘Don’t count on it.’

  ‘ – and then you tell me —’

  ‘Something I’d every intention of continuing to keep to myself,’ he cut in dryly. ‘Quite.’

  ‘But why? Why tell me? I didn’t ask and I wasn’t going to.’

  ‘Then perhaps that’s the reason.’ He shrugged and added flippantly, ‘Then again, you obviously have something of the confessional about you. Or perhaps it’s a matter of simple vanity. I’ll cheerfully admit to being profligate – so far as my frequently non-existent pay allows – but I draw the line at being called a rapist. It’s a slur on my capabilities, damn it.’ He gave her a jewel-bright smile. ‘And that is quite definitely all for today. Are you going or must I? I’ve really no desire to have your name added to my list of hypothetical victims.’

  ‘I’ll go.’ She replaced her hood and eyed him anxiously. If their conversation had left her feeling drained, he looked positively ill. ‘Are you on duty today?’

  ‘No. My time is my own.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should get some rest. You look —’

  ‘As if I’ve been on a week-long carouse? Yes, I know. Sadly, however, that is not the case. So when I’ve had enough of solitude – if, that is, I ever get any - I shall probably remedy that lack and get drunk.’ She was still standing two feet away looking worried. Acutely aware that, if anyone saw them together, he’d be accused of God knew what and she’d be in more trouble than he cared to contemplate, he let his temper loose again and said, ‘Now - for Christ’s sake, leave me alone. For reasons you may possibly appreciate, I’m finding it hard, today, to forgive you for being sister to the kind of foul-minded hypocrite who put me in the pillory. Or, to put it bluntly, all Puritans are beginning to look the same to me.’

  It was probably the most hurtful thing he could have said and he recognised it with distant regret … but it was too late. Abigail had already gone.

  The knowledge that he had wounded her – albeit for her own good – did nothing to improve his mood. It was even faintly alarming because he knew it to be a direct result of an uncharacteristic tendency to talk too much. The whole thing reeked of self-indulgence and indiscipline and it worried him.

  He spent the afternoon in the oak-panelled splendour of the Globe Room at the Reindeer Inn in Parson’s Lane. Added to the original building only eight years ago, it was a pleasant, airy room with an elaborately-carved fireplace and a honeycomb plaster ceiling – but, as far as Justin was concerned, it might as well have been a coal cellar. He sat broodingly in a corner of the large, mullioned window and found a sardonic enjoyment in the wary glances accorded him by the other customers.

  He did not, however, get drunk and this was fortunate because, at just past five o’clock, the door was flung wide to admit the King’s nephew.

  Silence engulfed the room.

  Briskly oblivious, Rupert strode across to push Justin unceremoniously back into his seat with a curt, ‘Are you sober? Because if you’re not, I’ve at least a dozen more urgent matters to waste my time on.’

  Justin’s mouth curled faintly.

  ‘Yes, sir. Damnably sober. I can’t afford to be anything else.’

  With a derisive grunt, the Prince threw himself inelegantly into the opposite corner and waved the pot-boy aside.

  ‘Then it’s not a completely ill-wind that keeps our pay in arrears. And at least you have boots. Two of my fellows were actually sharing a pair at one point. And, despite all the plundering I’m credited with, I never seem to have more than a couple of pounds to my name. The whole army is living off the country and discipline is going to the dogs – especially in the West.’ He scowled at this thought for a moment and then looked back at Justin. ‘They told you I was coming, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes. In order that we might ‘nurture our vices together’ was, I think the exact expression.’ Justin paused and then, with a brief, contemptuous gesture, ‘They think so, at any rate. Or is it that they’ve finally recognised you?’

  ‘Who cares?’ Rupert’s indifferent gaze skimmed the room and sent at least three stalwarts edging nervously towards
the door while the remainder exchanged meaningful glances. ‘If I took to the bottle every time filth was thrown at me, I’d never be less than half-cut.’

  ‘No, sir. Point taken.’

  ‘I hope so.’ The dark eyes examined him shrewdly. ‘Do you want me to take you out of here?’

  The blood rose under Justin’s skin and he said flatly, ‘There’s nothing I’d like better. But I’d be no use to you, sir. I can’t hold a sword yet, or even stay in the saddle more than a few hours. And I know the pace you set.’

  ‘Needs must,’ shrugged Rupert. ‘But if and when the Parliament fields this new army of theirs, I’ll need all my best captains – so you’d best get yourself fit.’ He stopped and then said, ‘You never used to drink. I suppose it’s this damned propaganda?’

  ‘Amongst other things.’

  ‘Hm.’ The Prince yawned hugely. ‘Well, look on the bright side. At least no one’s accused you of eating children.’

  ‘No.’ Justin stared into his ale-cup. ‘What will you do now that Shrewsbury has fallen?’

  ‘Use Ludlow.’ Rupert scowled again. He’d depended on his brother Maurice to hold Shrewsbury and its loss was still a sore point. He said tersely, ‘I’ve some news for you. Your father died at the end of last month.’

  A muscle moved in Justin’s jaw. Then his eyes hardened and he said, ‘I see. Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘Well, no one else is in a position to, are they?’ observed the Prince trenchantly. ‘What will you do?’

  A strange smile crossed the chiselled features.

  ‘The same as I’ve done these last ten years, Your Highness. Absolutely nothing. I won’t even get drunk.’

  ~ * ~

  THIRTEEN

  As cold, blustery March gave way to uncertain April, Justin gradually regained both his physical fitness and his sense of proportion. The spells of dizziness stopped, the headaches lessened and he was able to resume his duties. Meanwhile, not far away at the sign of the Ragged Staff, Abigail marked the passing of her nineteenth birthday. They did not meet.

  Inside the Castle, the programme of digging and rebuilding continued with new vigour and Sir William Compton strove to reach agreement with Sir Samuel Luke on an exchange of prisoners. Outside it, the so-called Self-Denying Ordinance finally emerged triumphant from the House of Lords, forcing all members of Parliament to surrender their military commands within the month. The disenchanted Earls of Essex and Manchester pre-empted the order by resigning twenty-four hours before it was passed; Lieutenant-General Cromwell continued quietly in active service away from London.

  While Sir Thomas Fairfax led the raw divisions of the New Model Army into the field for the first time, the Royalist force grew unruly with conflict and Rupert’s temper worsened with every day. He quarrelled with subordinate commanders over supplies, announced his complete pessimism about the cause in the West and then failed, in the face of Lord Digby’s mischievous optimism, to convince the King to save what he could by making peace while he still had some bargaining power. Charles listened courteously and then, refusing to be dismayed by his gloomy nephew, left Oxford on May 7th for Stow-on-the-Wold and the campaigning season.

  Travelling discreetly in the baggage-train of his army went the bright-eyed daughter of a peer of the realm; Captain Ned Frost’s enterprising Lucy.

  Samuel Radford, meanwhile, received an unexpected and flattering invitation to join Free-born John in London. Lilburne, it appeared, had chosen to resign from the army sooner than violate his beliefs by swearing the compulsory oath to the Solemn League and Covenant. By the end of April he had the civilian freedom to pursue his goals of political reform and he wanted all his promising young adherents with him.

  Samuel, though he desired nothing better than to go, had declined and, though she knew nothing of it, Abigail was the main reason. On the day after their nephew had been born, he had found her sobbing her heart out over something she refused to explain – and, since then, he hadn’t known what to make of her. Paler than ever, she devoted herself solely to household matters and, when he tried to interest her in the books he had borrowed from Captain Ambrose, she had walked away without a word.

  Samuel felt a little guilty about the books for the pretext of borrowing and returning them formed a convenient means by which he had been able to receive three more packets from Mistress Rhodes. All had gone to Sir Samuel Luke and contained, so he was told, bread-and-butter information about the state of the Castle’s defences and the number of Royalist troops in and around the town. Samuel continued to feel a sense of unease which deepened one day when he was privileged to catch the fair Anne in the very act of spying.

  He was not alone. For obvious reasons, he was never left alone in the Castle and, since Justin was out, his escort on this occasion was Tom Mayhew. Together they climbed the stairs to Captain Ambrose’s door and there, in flagrante delicto, was Mistress Rhodes up to her exquisite elbows in the Captain’s carved chest.

  Staring blankly at her, Ensign Mayhew lost what little poise he possessed.

  ‘My God! What the hell are you doing?’

  She raised delicate brows, completely at her ease.

  ‘Do you think that Captain Ambrose would consider that to be any business of yours?’

  Flushing, he hesitated. He knew of Justin’s brief liaison with the lady but he was also aware, as no one else seemed to be, of the mutual current of dislike which ran, crackling, between the two of them. He said, ‘If you are here at his invitation, no. Are you?’

  ‘How gauche you are,’ she smiled, drifting unconcernedly towards them. ‘Why don’t you ask him? A snub would do you so much good. And, in the meantime, you may stand aside.’ The slate-blue eyes moved past him to rest, with significance, on Samuel. ‘Mr Radford.’

  ‘Mistress Rhodes.’ His face empty of expression, Samuel bowed and held the door open for her. Then, when she had gone, he closed it and said, ‘Will he snub you, do you think?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘I doubt it. But since she suggested asking him, there’s no point in bothering.’

  Samuel stared moodily at the floor and then assuaged the nasty taste in his mouth by saying abruptly, ‘You don’t think she might have been counting on that?’

  ‘A bluff?’ Tom considered it and then said reluctantly, ‘No. No one is that cool when they’ve been caught red-handed. And she didn’t bat an eyelid, did she?’

  ‘No,’ agreed Samuel dryly. ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘Still, I think I might just keep an eye on her. Justin’s a good fellow and I owe him my life, you know. It’s just not easy to see what she might have been doing.’

  ‘No.’ Samuel’s eyes grew thoughtful. ‘No. It isn’t, is it?’

  He said no more and, selecting a book at random, left. Despite the look she had given him, he took care to avoid Mistress Rhodes and was half-way home before he realised that he had come away with Cruso’s Military Instruction for the Cavalry.

  *

  On the day after the King left Oxford, Abigail saw Captain Ambrose for the first time in almost two months. And because Fate was being typically perverse, he happened to have his arms around Barbara Atkins.

  It was late afternoon and they were standing in deep shadow under the timber-pillared overhang of the Town Hall. A tiny sound attracted Abigail’s attention and then it was held frozen while, over Bab’s golden head, she found herself looking into a pair of quizzical grey eyes.

  With unhurried calm, Justin disengaged himself and smiled.

  ‘Why, Mistress Radford.’

  ‘Abby?’ Bab turned swiftly, rosy-cheeked with defiance. ‘You – you won’t tell, will you?’

  Abigail drew a long, unsteady breath. ‘No.’

  ‘Of course she won’t,’ soothed the Captain. His voice held a hint of laughter. ‘Go home, Bab. And don’t worry.’

  She looked at him, opened her mouth to argue and then thought better of it.

  ‘All right. But promise you’ll come tomorrow.’

 
‘Impossible.’

  ‘The next day, then?’

  He sighed. ‘Don’t be importunate. I’ll come when I can.’ Then, looking past her to Abigail, ‘Mistress Radford? I’ve been hoping to speak with you if you’ll —’

  ‘No!’ said Abigail, violently. ‘No. I don’t want to hear.’ And, recovering the use of her feet, she walked swiftly way from them.

  She was almost home when he caught up with her and pulled her purposefully into an inconspicuous corner at the top of Frog Lane, saying, ‘Please listen. I want to apologise.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For the way I spoke to you the last time we met. It was rude and unfair and I didn’t mean it.’

  Something burned in Abigail’s chest and she said stonily, ‘No. Obviously not.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ His eyes narrowed and his fingers tightened on her shoulders. ‘You’re not referring to that little episode with Bab, are you? Good God! Don’t you know the girl’s an inveterate flirt?’

  ‘I don’t care what she is – or you either!’ retorted Abigail, cold, sick and miserable. ‘Let me go. We have nothing to say to one another and – and - oh, this is pointless!’

  ‘Is it? I am trying,’ said Justin patiently, ‘to say I’m sorry – and that I sincerely regret not having had an opportunity to say so earlier.’

  ‘Well, now you have said it, perhaps you’ll let go of me so I can go home.’

  ‘In a minute. What’s the matter? Is it just what I said that day or something else?’

  ‘Why do you care what it is?’

  ‘Because I thought we were supposed to be friends.’

  ‘Oh, we are. But only when it suits you – only when it’s convenient and you’re in the right mood.’

  Abruptly, Justin released her.

  ‘And the same, it seems, is true of you,’ he returned coolly. ‘Very well. Go home and stew in your own bad temper if that’s what you want. I’m sorry I troubled you. I had no idea you were so shrewish.’