Mary of Carisbrooke (9 page)

And suddenly into the saddened hush came the shocking sound of approaching laughter. The cheerful, chaffing laughter of high-spirited young men. She recognized the voices of Harry Firebrace and Richard Osborne. They were coming round the serving screens. They must both be off duty, and usually at this hour the King would be out taking the air. How appalling that they should know what was happening! “They will be utterly disgraced. The King will never forgive them. I must slip out and warn them,” thought Mary.

But it was not easy for a laundry maid to turn and walk out before a procession of such important people; and before she dared to do so worse befell.

The two young men burst into the hushed room and Richard Osborne, coming up from behind, caught her teasingly round the waist and kissed her. Mary had heard that he had a reputation for levity. Still clutching the pile of clean linen, she stood crimson-faced and helpless. Rolph, coming down the room close behind the dismissed courtiers, glared at him; and Firebrace pulled up within a yard of them. Apparently becoming aware, to his horror, that they were in the King’s presence, he made a frantic effort to suppress his friend’s exuberance, pulling at his arm in order to distract his attention from Mary. He was not usually clumsy, but in doing so he bumped into Sir John Berkeley, knocking the plumed hat from his hand. He apologised profusely and bent down to retrieve the hat. As Ashburnham and the others went out through the door, Berkeley and Firebrace were very close together, while Osborne—seemingly stricken with embarrassment—stood blocking the Captain’s way with his broad shoulders. Firebrace prolonged the confused moment still more by dusting the ill-used headgear with his sleeve, and insisting upon smoothing out the sweeping plume. Mary stood watching the odd scene, fascinated. She was marvelling that she, quiet Mary Floyd, should have been drawn into the circle of such colourful people and dramatic events. She saw Sir Charles Berkeley, with his back to Rolph, say something quickly to Firebrace, and it had nothing to do with the hat. He spoke in a whisper, but he was so close to her that she overheard. “Tell his Majesty that Edward Worsley of Gatcombe will act in our stead,” he said; and added something about “despairing of an opportunity to speak” and “horses on the other side.”

When Sir John Berkeley and the impatient Captain had gone out to their waiting horses she was still thinking what an extraordinary thing it was for an ardent Royalist to say to an attendant appointed by Parliament.

Forgetting Osborne’s boldness and her own embarrassment, she stood staring at Harry Firebrace; but she was seeing him in an entirely new light. She began trying to fit into the puzzle the memory of various things which he had done and said. Realizing that she must have overheard, he turned and met her searching gaze. And as though divining her thoughts, he shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly and smiled. He seemed confident that she would not betray him. And Mary felt suddenly elated, as though some strange, secret bond had been tied between them.

When Richard Osborne set the pile of linen down for her and asked her pardon she forgave him absently because she supposed it had all been part of the purposeful play-acting.

“I ask no pardon for kissing you, only for choosing so public a moment,” he was careful to explain.

He smiled down at her, and she thought his voice singularly attractive. With the mild, preoccupied appreciation of a girl already in love, she noticed that his mouth was reckless and his brown eyes kind.

But when the King retired to the State Room and beckoned to his auburn-haired Groom of the Bedchamber to attend him, showing no sign of annoyance at the disturbance he had created, Mary’s exultation was mixed with fear. “Now he will give him Sir John Berkeley’s message,” she thought. “There is something real which is going on, and from now on there will be real danger.”

But it was of Harry Firebrace’s danger she thought, not the King’s.

They arrested him and took him away. Our kind old Captain Burley—handcuffed as though he were a felon!” sobbed Frances Trattle, burying her frightened white face in her arms as she huddled over the parlour table at the “Rose and Crown.”

“And there were not enough of us to save him from the Governor’s soldiers,” confirmed her mother, wiping her eyes by the inn window.

“It was a hopeless venture anyway,” said Edward Trattle sombrely, from the hearth.

Although most of the excitement of an abortive rising had died down, people were still standing about in the streets outside, or gaping from their doorways, and at that moment a couple of patrolling troopers trotted briskly past.

“What really happened?” asked Mary, who had been sent by her aunt to get a first-hand account of things. They had both seen Captain Burley being brought into the castle. At first it had been supposed that all Newport was marching furiously to Carisbrooke to set the King free, but from the escort which had arrested him on the road to Carisbrooke they had been able to elicit only garbled stories.

Seeing that his wife and daughter were still too agitated for coherency, Trattle drew Mary to the settle and sat down beside her. “It all began with Master Ashburnham and his two friends coming here while they waited for a boat,” he explained. “Rumour’d already got around that they were being sent away, and people kept crowding about the door, sympathizing and shouting out what they’d like to do to the Governor. I served the three gentlemen with drinks myself, and I’ll say no one ever looked more in need of them. But presently two of them went off—to say good-bye to a friend, they said.”

“And I asked poor Master Ashburnham to rest awhile in here,” said Agnes, coming to warm her hands at the fire. “But it seems it was the worst thing I could have done.”

Mary, who loved her, hated to see her so distressed. “Why, surely ’twas only human, Mistress Trattle!” she said.

“Yes. But you see, child, Captain Burley was in here too. He’d been taking his afternoon nap by the fire. And seeing they’d met up at the castle, the two of them fell to talking. Master Ashburnham began telling him all that’s been going on up there, and you know how excitable the poor dear Captain is—”

“Seems he got it into his head that as soon as his Majesty’s friends had been got rid of, these Parliament folk meant to do the King some mischief. ‘I’ve served him all these years,’ he said, ‘and retired or not, I’m not going to stand by now when his Majesty’s life is in danger!’ And out he rushes into the street and starts haranguing the crowd.”

Agnes Trattle sat down and put a shaky hand on Mary’s knee. “He sent a lad for the town drum and had him beat it in the Square and up and down the town; while he himself called on everyone to rise up and rescue the King—”

“‘For God and King Charles!’ he kept shouting in that great quarter-deck voice of his,” sniffed Frances, beginning to dry her eyes and rearrange her disordered hair.

“As if he could have taken the castle, poor old gamecock!” smiled Trattle, the realist, sadly regarding his lodger’s empty chair.

“There’s no more than a dozen or so in the garrison, Mary always says,” argued Frances defiantly, coming to join them. “If only people would have rallied round as they said they would, and old Mayor Moses had not interfered—seizing his drum back and sending to warn the Governor!”

“’Twas but a poor following anyway,” said Trattle. “Many of ’em women and children like yourself, and only the Captain’s sword and one musket between the lot of you.”

Now that Frances was standing up, Mary could see that her skirts were mudstained and torn. “Did
you
go, Frances?” she exclaimed admiringly. For it seemed almost as spectacular a thing to do as presenting the King of England with a rose. So much more splendid than anything which she herself would ever dare to do.

“He was always so fond of her,” murmured Agnes. “I was for following myself—”

“Until I put a stop to it,” said Trattle. “And only just in time, too. Rolph’s men arrested him before he was well out of the town.”

“It seems you will never raise a finger for the King!” accused his wife angrily.

“Not unless I see some reasonable hopes of success. A forlorn hope like this may well do him more harm than good, as Master Ashburnham was telling the people just now.”

“Where are Master Ashburnham and the others?” asked Mary.

“Captain Rolph chartered a ship for them. He would have liked to pin this disturbance on to them if he could. But although that Roundhead cur who lives opposite—he who threw the mud at the King, you remember—piped up and said Master Ashburnham had been leaning out of this window inciting the people to rise for the King, everyone gave him the lie. They swore that he had only been counselling them to keep quiet, and they were in such a dangerous mood by then that Captain Rolph was only too glad to hurry him and his friends aboard for the mainland.”

“Let us hope he will be safe from Cromwell,” said Mary, who had never cared about what happened on the mainland before.

“He told me he hoped to find refuge at Netley Abbey,” said Agnes. “But what of Captain Burley? Was he brought into the castle before you left? Did they take off those awful handcuffs?”

Mary hesitated. She could not bring herself to add to their distress. “He was taken straight to the Governor’s room,” she said.

Agnes Trattle gave a sigh of relief. “Then undoubtedly the Governor will see that he is just an excitable old gentleman and will let him go. After all, nothing
came
of his enterprise. We shall probably have him home before the day is out.”

She began cheerfully setting the disordered room to rights, but her husband was watching Mary. He felt sure that she was holding something back. “It is getting dark and, with all this commotion in the town, I am sure your father would like me to see you home,” he said.

Frances, smoothing out her muddied gown, was almost her bright self again. “Didn’t that handsome Master Firebrace offer to bring you again this time?” she teased.

“Only those of us who live there are allowed out without a special pass,” said Mary, colouring becomingly.

“It is iniquitous!” declared Agnes, kissing her good-bye. “But at least
you
will still be able to come and see us.”

Trattle led Mary out to the inn yard, and called to his ostler to saddle a horse. It was already dusk and as he took a lantern from its hook outside the kitchen door the light fell on her face, so fair and serious in the soft darkness of her hood. It occurred to him that she had grown up surprisingly during the last few weeks, outstripping his own daughter in maturity. For the first time he found himself thinking of her as a woman, and one who knew when to speak and when to hold her tongue. “What did they really do to Burley?” he asked.

“He was put down in the dungeon.”

“Merciful God! And he close on seventy. You did right not to tell them.”

“Aunt Druscilla thinks it was to frighten others from following his example. The Governor has been like a cat on hot bricks since the King came.”

“It sounds more like Rolph’s work, persecuting an old man.”

“Try not to worry, Master Trattle. My father will see that he is properly fed, and there is scarcely one of the men who does not sympathize with him. Perhaps he will be set free before the reinforcements come.”

“Reinforcements?”

“They are expected any day. The garrison can talk of nothing else.”

“These New Model Ironsides?”

“I suppose so. Our men hate the thought of it.”

To Mary that score of middle-aged gunners and musketeers were personal friends.

“Everything will be tightened up. But at least you are still able to come and go,” said Edward Trattle, unconsciously echoing his wife’s words. “The Governor must be a bigger fool than we supposed.” For a moment or two he stood thoughtfully swaying the lantern, then shrugged as a man will who comes to an unwilling decision.

He kicked open a door to the crowded public room of the inn and beckoned to someone inside. A sudden buzz of conversation and laughter, a stale warmth and the smell of spilled ale assailed their senses; and through the shaft of yellow light briefly streaming across the cobbles a shabbily dressed man lurched out into the yard. “Here is someone who is going back to the castle,” Trattle told him quietly, as the door swung shut again.

The man might have been a valet or a barber who had seen better days. In a thin whine he began a tale about wanting to get a message to his master who had gotten himself a fine appointment up there and owed him a month’s wages. But his host cut him short. “No need for that, Major,” he said. “Mistress Mary is one of us, and if she is to do it I will not have her hoodwinked.” At the sound of horseshoes clopping from the stable Trattle glanced over his shoulder, but his ostler had stopped to tighten a girth. “This is Major Bosvile, Mary. And the letter is for the King,” he told her tersely. “Bosvile is already suspected and there is grave risk. I would not have you take it unwillingly or unwarned.”

Cold fear struck at Mary’s heart. A sense of unreality gripped her. “How could
I
give a letter to the
King
?” she whispered, conscious of how eagerly they were both watching her.

“I do not ask you to,” said the man who had lurched out. His voice no longer whined and he was quite sober. “Do you know a young Groom of the Bedchamber called Firebrace?”

Mary nodded. Cold fear gave way to warm excitement. She remembered the sense of being specially trusted which she had experienced when Harry Firebrace had last smiled at her. She would do anything to enter yet more fully into that joyful confederacy.

“He is an ingenious young man,” the disguised Major was saying. “If you give him this letter he will somehow find means to deliver it.”

In the half light she saw him delve into the pockets of his patched coat and draw out a purse. She could hear the ostler whistling through his teeth as he brought the horse. The whiteness of a letter showed momentarily in the shifting lantern light; then she felt its crispness being thrust into her hand. It seemed incredible. Only a short while ago she had thought Frances a heroine for greeting the King as an acknowledged Royalist before an uncertain crowd; and for following, mud-splashed and romantic, in an old man’s loyal rising. That had been splendid and spectacular, of course. But mere play-acting, compared with this. This was real. And dangerous, as Trattle had so gravely warned. And within that charmed circle of danger stood a young man with a devastating smile.

Mary tucked the letter down inside her bodice, against her fast-beating heart. “I do not want your money,” she whispered brusquely, waving the diffidently proffered purse away.

Trattle took the reins and mounted and Jem the redheaded ostler thrust out a palm for her to scramble to the saddle behind him. She took the lantern in one hand and held on to Trattle’s belt with the other. As they passed out under the archway into the road she looked back; but save for old Jem, with the inevitable straw in his mouth, the inn yard was empty. There was only the sharp pricking of the letter between her breasts to convince her of the reality of the task she had undertaken.

She and Trattle rode through the town and out towards Carisbrooke in silence. At the foot of the lane by the water splash he drew in his horse under the shadow of the great beech trees which grew beneath the escarpment. “Better that I am not seen with you,” he muttered; and then, as he stretched an arm backwards to set her down, he added remorsefully, “I would not have drawn you into this, Mary, could I have seen any other way. That letter is about another ship to take the place of the French one at Southampton. But I beg you do not speak of it to my wife and Frances.”

“Why do you let them suppose that you do nothing for the King?”

“Because I can be of more use that way.” He was surprised by the radiance of Mary’s upturned face, and smiled down at her more easily. “My Frances has not your gift of reticence, and the dangers of the mainland are now spread to the island. Go now, my dear, so that friend Floyd may know I have brought you safely back.”

Hurrying eagerly up the path to the drawbridge, calling back friendly “good-nights” to the sentries, walking in under the great gateway with all the lights from the castle window giving her welcome—all was pleasantly familiar. And yet different because of the letter.

“Why, you are all out of breath, my poppet!” called her father, who was talking with the master-gunner just inside the gateway.

“The way up is so steep,” said Mary.

“No steeper than it has been these last seventeen years,” grinned Floyd, glad to have anything at all to grin about on such a misfortunate day.

“Let’s hope it will blow some of the breath out of this new batch of know-all Ironsides!” muttered Howe, the old master-gunner, fervently.

“Tell your aunt they have landed and should be here before nightfall,” the Sergeant of the Guard called after her.

Mary understood her father’s more than ordinary zeal that nothing should be found amiss. Anxious as she was to tell him about the letter, there was no opportunity—nor could she have found it in her heart to add to his burdens at such a time.

While brushing out her hair before supper, she looked searchingly into her aunt’s mirror. She had fastened about her neck a string of beads which her father had given her. They were not real amber like those which Captain Rolph had brought her from London, but she touched them with a loving smile. And the smile curved her wide mouth to tenderness and lent a soft lustre to her eyes. “Of course, I am not
really
lovely like Frances–” she thought, turning shyly from a reflection which almost pleased her.

There was a new look about her—something more soignée, more secret and mature. And Captain Rolph was quick to notice it. At supper he managed to sit next to her. “Although you would have none from me, those yellow beads suit you,” he said, in his mannerless way. “Did Richard Osborne give them to you?”

The way she seemed to draw herself out of some private dream piqued his desire still further. “Richard Osborne?” she repeated vaguely. “Why?”