Georgette Heyer (7 page)

  Argyll had forced him to part from his best friends. That had been known as the purging of his Court. The King's big mouth curled in a cynical smile as the recollection flitted through his head. A godly purging that could banish Hamilton, and leave almost alone amongst the gentlemen who had accompanied him from Holland the profligate Buckingham! The King had never known by what wiles Buckingham had insinuated himself into Argyll's good graces. It was possible that he had sold himself to Argyll with a promise to use his influence on the King. Argyll could not know that the sweet-tempered prince, who was always so docile, had learned to give his confidence to no man.

  He had learned to swallow insults too, the petty as well as the great. He had never set much store by pomp, but until he set foot on Scottish soil he had not been called upon to deal with incivility to his person. He had soon discovered that there were no lengths to which the bigoted conceit of the Covenanting ministers would not carry them. He remembered, and could smile at the memory of his own astonishment, an incident that had occurred in the house of one of these ministers. When, upon his entering the parlour, the minister's wife had run to offer him a chair, 'My heart,' had said her austere spouse, 'he is a young man, and can help himself.'

  Looking back, he knew that he should have realized by a dozen signs the trap the Scottish commissioners had set for him when they came to Holland to invite him to go with them to Scotland. The stipulations that Rupert should not accompany him, and that Montrose should be commanded to lay down his arms would have been enough to warn anyone but a boy of twenty, pulled this way and that by conflicting counsels.

  Montrose! As the name came into his brain, the King put up his hand across his eyes, as though to shut an unwelcome vision from his sight. 'I sent him warning!' he said, and started to hear his own voice breaking the silence of the wood.

  His hand dropped, for no screen could shut out the vision of Montrose's calm, proud countenance, with the steady eyes that gazed so straitly into his.

  But Montrose had had so many enemies; as many almost as Rupert, who was thought to possess a familiar spirit: it had seemed to be useless to risk all upon the chance of his prevailing against the Covenanters. But he had not meant to betray Montrose to Argyll. Argyll had sworn no hurt should befall him, and he himself had written to Montrose, twice, trying to explain his change of policy, and bidding him lay down his arms, and leave Scotland. It was not his fault the letters had been delayed, not his fault that Argyll had lied to him, and had delivered Montrose to a shameful death. And when the treachery had been accomplished, matters had been in too forward a train for him then to draw back. Too much had been at stake, and with Montrose dead there had seemed to be only Argyll left to whom he could look for help in his necessity. He had signed the Solemn League and Covenant, with not the smallest intention of fulfilling any one of its clauses; and those who had forced him to do it had known that he would never abide by it. But what none of them knew, least of all Argyll, was that one day he meant to have Argyll's head in exchange for Montrose's. He was not by nature a vengeful man, but even now, sitting in Spring Coppice, he renewed his resolve to have Argyll's head, if ever he should come to his crown.

  A drop of rain, splashing on to his hand, which lay clenched upon his knee, recalled him to his surround ings. He looked up, and saw that it must have been raining for some while, for the leaves were thick above his head and the rain had only just begun to penetrate them.

  He got up stiffly, for it was cold, and his limbs were chilled. There was as yet no sign of Richard Penderel returning through the wood, no sound to be heard but the pattering of raindrops on the trees. He was quite alone, nor would anyone come to his call.

  He began to walk up and down to warm himself, but his shoes hurt him, and his body cried out for rest, so he sat down again presently on the bank, choosing the most sheltered place he could find.

  The noggen shirt he was wearing teased his skin unbearably; as he wriggled his shoulders he hoped that the clothes he had put on were not lousy. He did not think that he had been softly reared: his boyhood had been spent within sound and sight of war; he could not remember ever having had enough money for his needs; and latterly he had been put to such straits that he had even been obliged to borrow two hundred pounds to enable him to set sail for Scotland; but nothing in his experience had prepared him for the contingency he found himself in now. He had never sat in a wood, becoming slowly drenched with rain; he had never walked save for his own pleasure; nor had for his sole attendants a parcel of country hinds. At the worst, there had been a house to call his own, servants to wait upon him, councillors to advise him, horses to ride, a bed to sleep on, and clean clothes to wear. The leather doublet Richard had brought him smelt of sweat, and the battered hat that was protecting his head from the rain was greasy and stained. He real ized that he did not know where he was to rest that night, or where to find food, and for a few moments a feeling of helplessness, exag gerated by fatigue of body and mind, gripped him.

  The sound, faint in the distance, of horses approaching along the lane jerked him from his mood of despair. He got up again, and moved cautiously towards the edge of the wood, taking cover behind a bush, through whose branches he was able to peep at the road.

  The noise of the trotting hooves grew louder. In a few moments a troop of horse went by, riding steadily, apparently unconcerned with the presence of a possible fugitive in the wood. The King watched them till they drew out of sight, and then returned to his bank, to try to think what he ought to do next, and how make his way to London.

  Presently he heard footsteps approaching through the wood, and, looking up, saw Richard Penderel coming back, with two other men following him.

  He saw how anxiously they looked at him, and welcomed them with a smile, and a mild jest. 'Well, my new regiment of Guards? What news?'

  Humphrey Penderel grinned appreciatively, but thought it proper to kneel to address the King. 'You may say it is good news, my liege.'

  'I am right glad of it. Are you Humphrey the miller? Get up, man: my Guards don't kneel to me.'

  'The news is not good,' interrupted Richard, with a rather severe look cast at his brother. 'Scarce an hour after your honour was gone from White-Ladies soldiers came into the village, asking if any had seen you. It was that made us late returning to you.'

  'Yea, and I say it is good news, sith you were safely gone from the house, my liege,' asserted Humphrey.

  A gleam of amusement lit the darkness of the King's eyes. 'Methinks you must be the wit of your family, friend Humphrey. Was it a troop of horse that came enquiring after me? I think I saw them but a short while ago, for a troop passed by the wood, riding northwards. As I judge, they were militia-men. They had not the look of soldiers.'

  'It was a troop of horse,' Richard answered. 'They asked if any had seen your honour, but got no good by it. We told them –'

  'We?' the King interjected.

  Richard jerked his thumb towards his companions. 'Humphrey and Francis and me was there, my liege. We said there was a troop passed in the night, but whether your honour was amongst them we could not tell.'

  He looked so wooden as he spoke that a laugh was drawn from the King. 'And what did they then, Dick?'

  'They rode away,' replied Richard. 'Folk say as the Scotch lay at Tong last night, and are going north. Francis and me, we do think maybe the rebels will look for you amongst them.'

  'Very like,' agreed the King. He glanced at Yates, who was standing at a little distance, worshipfully regarding him. 'Are you the man who led me to White-Ladies?' he asked. 'I thank you for it.'

  Yates coloured to the ears, and moved his lips sound lessly.

  'What is that you have in your hand?' enquired the King.

  'It's a broom-hook, please your Majesty,' said Yates, shyly proffering it.

  The King took it, and, finding it was less heavy than the wood-bill Richard had given him, asked if Yates would exchange it for the bill.

  Richard, meanwhile, had been feeling with his hand the bank on which the King sat. He discov ered it to be very sodden, which at once presented a new anxiety to his mind. He said nothing, however, and when the King asked him what had become of his friends, and whether my Lord Wilmot had got safe away, he lowered himself on to the bank beside Charles, and answered that the troop had ridden away in good time, and that my Lord Wilmot had been put in John Penderel's charge, who had it in mind to take him to the house of a very well-disposed man.

  'Ay,' said Humphrey, 'but John would liefer care for your Majesty, that he would. He's as melancholy as a gibed cat, the noble gentleman. Besides, not a step will he budge without he has his horses and his servant go with him, as fine as a lord's bastard.'

  'It's on account of his being a swag-bellied man,' said Yates thoughtfully. 'Such can't go afoot, not well, they can't.'

  'I hope I may not be hanged before I see my Lord Wilmot again!' said the King, mentally treasuring up these remarks.

  They did not understand that he was jesting, and looked gravely at him, evidently trying to find words with which to answer him. At last, Yates said very seri ously: 'There's the three of us as'll hang first. Ay, and William too.'

  A murmur of assent came from the other two. The King was touched, but answered with forced merri ment: 'It's not hanging I fear, but drowning, good friends, if this rain keeps up.'

  They could appreciate this, and grinned at him. Humphrey then nudged Francis, who muttered: 'It would come better from Richard, I was thinking.'

  'Ay, it would,' Humphrey agreed, and nodded at his brother. 'You say it civil, as his honour ought to be spoke to.'

  Richard drew a breath, and fixing his eyes on the King's face, blurted out: 'We'd like your honour to take the name of Will Jones, and to mend your speech, if your honour would be pleased to pardon us for saying of such a thing.'

  'Why, with all my heart, so you tell me what you would have me do,' the King said.

  'It's the way you talk,' explained Richard.

  'The walk's not right neither,' added Humphrey. 'Anyone would know your honour was a King, no help for it. Francis and me, we'll be off to keep watch, and Richard'll learn your Majesty to speak the country way.'

  At the end of an hour he came back to report that all was yet well, and was at once called upon by the King to observe the progress he had made under Richard's teaching. But having heard the King utter some phrases in the dialect, and watched him walk a few steps, he sighed, and shook his head, and said that it would be best for him to travel by night.

  'Alas!' said Charles, sinking down on the bank again. 'I thought I was an apt pupil.'

  'It's the way you hold yourself, so straight and easy,' explained Humphrey. 'Like as if you was a King and didn't care nobbut for nobody.'

  'Like as if I was a King!' Charles repeated, dropping his head in his hands.

  They stood looking at him in dismay. At length Richard ventured to say: 'Humphrey didn't mean to offend your honour, for all he spoke so free.'

  'Nay, there's no offence,' the King said, with a mournful smile. 'Leave me alone awhile, good friends. I think I am too tired to profit by your teaching.'

  The brothers went off together, leaving him seated under the dripping trees. It was some time before Richard returned, but when he did come back it was with a blanket, which he spread on the bank for the King to sit upon, telling him it came from Yates's house.

  The King thanked him, and bade him stay awhile, for he had questions to ask of him. Richard sat down on the bank, remarking as he did so, that it was not raining outside the wood.

  'I begin to think I was born under an unlucky star,' said the King ruefully.

  'It's well for you it does rain here, my liege,' replied Richard. 'They as is looking for you won't think to come poling and prying in the wood.'

  'Are they searching for me already?'

  'Ay, a few red-coats, but they don't know for sure you was ever in these parts. It's only that we be known Catholics, and Mr Giffard living here, and the Scotch passing so close, that sets them to suspicioning you might be a-laying up somewheres at hand.'

  'I must get away from here,' the King said, half to himself. He saw that Richard had no suggestions to offer, but merely sat waiting humbly to be told his pleasure, and began to ask him a number of questions about the persons of quality whose houses were situated on the way to London.

  It soon became plain that Richard knew nothing of the gentry outside his own immediate ken. He was quite unable to tell the King of any gentleman or yeoman who would be willing to house him in Staffordshire, and Charles, who was himself unacquainted with the district, sat silent for a moment, frowning. He knew the west country well, having lived there for some time in command of his father's western forces, but rack his brain as he might he could not call to mind any loyal gentleman living on the route to London.