The Rebel’s Daughter

The Woulfes of
Loxsbeare, Book 1

The Rebel’s
Daughter

By Anita Seymour

ISBN: 978-1-77145-291-5

Copyright 2014 by Anita
Seymour

Cover art by Michelle
Lee Copyright 2014

All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part
of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means
(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise)
without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner
and the publisher of this book

Dedication:

To the Historical
Fiction Critique Group for their invaluable help in telling
Helena’s story.

Also, a special
thanks to my editor Tanja Cilla who applied her magic duster

Preface

In 1675, a
private Whig society met at rooms in the King’s Head Inn, Chancery
Lane. They called themselves the Green Ribbon Club. On special days
their votaries wore ribbons in their hats, of “Leveller Green”.
#

Their patron, James Scott, 1st Duke of Monmouth, the eldest
illegitimate son of King Charles II, was a regular visitor. He
wore
“
the
green
”
, and they
honoured him by tilting their hats and brims over one eye in
the
“
Monmouth
Cock
”
, toasting him
openly as Prince of Wales.

The members swaggered across the cobblestones of Whitehall,
talking of the days when “Jemmy” travelled through the West of
England,
“dancing the green”
and
“carrying of the
Plate”

Toasts were drunk to
“Bless his
Majesty and confound the Duke of York”
,
with little fear of the pillory or Newgate prison. Monmouth’s
popularity was high, particularly in the West Country, with its
mines and rich woollen trade, owned by non-conformists who had been
severely punished for their dissent.

The June 11,
1685 was known as the first of the Duking Days: called so because
that was the day Monmouth sailed into Lyme Bay, accompanied by
eighty-one hopeful men.

His aim was to
wrest the British crown from his uncle, James II, the newly crowned
king, and within days, six thousand West Countrymen had rallied to
his cause. Monmouth was declared “King” in Taunton market place in
front of an enthusiastic crowd. But his army was poorly armed and
badly disciplined, and many of the promised gentry did not arrive
to support him.

In retaliation,
James II sent his troops to the West under Lord Feversham, with
John Churchill as Second-in-Command.

On the night of
July 5, Monmouth launched a surprise attack on the royal army, on
marshland outside Bridgwater, in Somerset.

The Battle of
Sedgemoor was the last encounter ever fought on English soil.

Author’s Note

As part of my research for this book, I
visited the Blake Museum in Bridgwater, which contains memorabilia
of the Duke of Monmouth and the Battle of Sedgemoor.

A guide sat in a corner of the room,
dressed in the uniform of Monmouth’s army and when I identified,
correctly, a uniform of one of “Kirk's Lambs” on display, the guide
stared at me levelly and said,

“
We
don’t talk “bout him round “ere.”

They have long memories in Somerset.

# Salute to
Thomas Rainborough, a popular Leveller leader and sailor, murdered
in 1648

* 1675 the Duke of Monmouth, an excellent
rider and sportsman, had carried off the international plate at the
St Germain horse race.

Chapter 1

Loxsbeare, Exeter, June 1685

Helena clung to the hanging strap of the
bulky wooden carriage as it clattered down St David’s Hill and took
a stomach-lurching turn into Northgate Street.

“
Make
way there!” the haughty footmen clinging to the rear yelled at a
driver of a slow-moving cart who rounded the corner into their
path. The journeyman’s face, twisted into a snarl, flashed by the
window as he hauled his barrow onto the verge, narrowly avoiding a
collision.

Helena flinched at the man’s distorted
features, though she doubted his bad temper was directed at her.
However, recent events had sharpened her perception of disrespect,
and she expected less than perfect manners from strangers these
days. Bayle sat opposite beside her mother, dwarfing her younger
brother Henry, who would have surely fidgeted more had there been
room.

Their manservant did not usually attend
church with the family, though that morning his insistence was
accepted by her mother without comment.

Nathan Bayle had been part of Helena’s
life forever. “Ask Bayle.” was the watchword at Loxsbeare, where
house servants and estate staff alike called him Master Bayle,
whether he was within earshot or not. Only her father ever called
him Nathan.

Despite his imposing size, he was a gentle
soul, with wavy brown hair slicked back from a high, flat forehead,
and expressive brown eyes. His mention of their needing protection
puzzled Helena. Or did the entire city know Sir Jonathan Woulfe had
gone to join the Duke of Monmouth? Even so, surely there were those
among them who would applaud him?

The aromas of hot leather and horses,
sunbaked grass and starched linen within that confined space made
Helena queasy. Her mother sat, silent and upright, her delicate
features turned toward the window. She kept her face averted, but
Helena sensed her unease as she tugged repeatedly at a lace lappet
dangling from her headdress.

Exeter sported few private carriages,
therefore the knot of curious onlookers who watched them roll to a
halt on the cobbles outside St Mary Arches Church was little cause
for concern.

Bayle did not wait for the footman to let
down the wooden step, but leapt onto the ground in one fluid
movement. His hand reached back to help the other occupants
down.

Helena nodded in greeting to several of
their acquaintances at the lytch gate, though, unusually, no one
acknowledged her. Instead, self-conscious or scornful eyes raked
her as they entered through the church door. A woman started
forward, a hand raised in greeting, but at her husband’s shake of
his head, she hesitated and returned to his side.

Others made no pretense of their revulsion,
and hurried inside, hushing children who chattered and pointed.

Seated in the family pew at the front, her
mother sat stoically, her gaze fixed on the altar, feigning
unawareness of curious eyes, or low murmurings from adjacent
pews.

“
Let
them whisper and gossip,” Helena muttered under her breath. She was
proud that her menfolk had stood up for their principles and joined
the Duke’s cause, although she had not slept a full night since
they had left for Lyme two weeks before.

Before the service began, the Minister, a
humourless man with a weak chin, paused before the altar. “I have
been instructed,” he said, swallowing, “to read a pronouncement
issued by his Majesty.” His myopic eyes flicked to the figure of
the magistrate who hovered in the transept.

“
Didn’t
he read a declaration last week?” Henry asked, sotto
voce.

“
That
one was Monmouth’s,” Helena said out of the corner of her mouth.
“The one he read at Taunton saying he was the rightful
king.”

“
I don’t
understand,” he said, louder. “Father said Monmouth didn’t seek the
throne.”

“
Hush!”
Helena nudged him, deflecting a scowl from their mother.

Trisk coughed, and began reading
from a rolled parchment. “
His Majesty King James decrees that his nephew,
James Scott, Duke of Monmouth, and all his, adherents, abettors and
advisers are traitors and rebels
.”

As the words reverberated round
the church, rage swept through
Helena’s veins. Traitors? How dare this insipid
cleric call Sir Jonathan Woulfe such a thing? Rebels indeed! Didn’t
he realize Monmouth protected the very church where Triske
condemned his loyalty?

The minister reached the end of his short
speech. After a nod from the magistrate, he commanded the
congregation kneel in prayer. There was the shuffle of feet and the
odd self-conscious cough.

Only self-righteous anger sustained Helena
through the rest of the interminable service, aware as she was of
the whispers and hard looks thrown their way.

Before the last notes of the choristers
trailed away, her mother rose abruptly and swept back down the
aisle.

Staying close to her skirts. Helena
followed, looking neither right nor left, drawn by the shaft of
sunlight thrown onto the flagstones by the open church
door.

A young friend of Hendry’s started forward
from the last pew, his face alight with greeting. A male hand
clamped down on the boy’s shoulder and after a brief, fierce
exchange, his father guided him away.

Helena narrowed her eyes at the man, angry
for Henry, who had harmed no one. Was this what they were to expect
from townsfolk who relied on the wool trade provided by Sir
Jonathan Woulfe? Were it not for him, where would they find the
food for their families, and the clothes on their backs?

Her mother paused to acknowledge Master
Triske at the church door, but did not linger to chatter with
friends, as was her usual custom. Instead, she walked rapidly back
along the path, past a glowering Lord Blanden and his sneering
wife, Lady Maude.

The Blandens owned an ancient manor at the
top of St David’s Hill, and though it had been built before that of
the Woulfes, possessed a less noble heritage. According to Helena’s
father, the respect of the city’s citizens had so far eluded the
Blandens, a fact which still rankled.

On
her seventeenth birthday, Helena had made
no objection when her family announced she would be betrothed to
their son. She liked Martyn well enough, though she had hoped to
feel something other than brotherly affection for the man destined
to be her husband.

That her father granted her a generous
portion, commensurate with the Woulfe name, went some way to
igniting her enthusiasm. Dazzled by his generosity, she had moved
through a haze of over-indulgence, exhilarated to be the centre of
so much attention.

Despite the heat of the churchyard, Helena
shivered at the memory of the morning, in the previous December,
when Martyn fell ill during a visit to Loxsbeare. His manservant
had carried him to his horse and bore him away before Helena could
bid a proper farewell.

In the days that followed, her enquiries as
to his well-being were deflected with vague responses, until a
messenger arrived from Blanden Manor to tell them Martyn was
dead.

Relieved the marriage would not go ahead,
guilt made Helena exaggerate her tears.

Lord Blandon had appeared more frustrated
than grief-stricken, an observation made by her mother, who claimed
he had instigated the betrothal so he might bask in the reflected
glory of the Woulfes” reputation.

Recalling her mother’s scorn, Helena
hurried through the sun-filled churchyard, conscious of Blandness
sharp eyes boring into her back, all the way to the
carriage.