Royalist on the Run Read online

  Arabella dragged the air into her tortured lungs, fighting for control, and as she did so the boy lifted his head and his thumb plopped from his mouth. Turning his head, he looked directly at her. She was unprepared for the pain that twisted her heart. It was like looking at Edward. The boy had the same startling blue eyes framed with long black lashes. His hair was dark, the curls framing his exquisite face. She could not tear her eyes away from him. Even at so young an age he had the same arrogant way of holding his head as his father, the same jut of his chin. Yet there was a distress in him, an anxiety that was unusual for one so young.

  Tearing her eyes away from the boy, she fixed them on his father. ‘I heard that your wife died, Edward.’ So deeply had Arabella loathed the woman Edward had married that even though she had died the bitterness Arabella held still remained and she would choke if she allowed her name to pass her lips.

  ‘Yes. Anne died shortly after giving birth to Dickon,’ Edward uttered, his voice flat.

  She stared at him, searching for an emotion that would tell her how he grieved the loss of his wife. But there was nothing. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’ Her voice was as emotionless as his had been, but she could not pretend to emotions she did not feel.

  ‘And I for yours. Your husband was killed during the battle at St Fagans, I believe.’

  Her expression tightened on being reminded of John Fairburn. His body had been brought back home in a coffin for burial. Having no wish to look on John’s dead body and being told he had been so badly wounded she wouldn’t recognise him anyway, she had buried him with the rest of his ancestors in the churchyard.

  ‘Yes. I am a widow—but that is none of your concern. Whatever the reason for your being here, I want you to know you are not welcome. You and I have lived our separate lives for a long time now and I would like it to remain that way. When you married Anne Lister you severed all ties between us.’ The expression on his face seemed to tell her that nothing she might do or say could reach him.

  ‘I will, of course, do as you wish, Arabella, and leave when Stephen gets here, but it is also imperative that I find a temporary home for my child.’

  Arabella began to shake her head from side to side, for it was beginning to penetrate into her dazed mind what he had in his.

  ‘You cannot mean that you expect me to...’ Her expression was appalled. ‘No—no, I will not. How can you ask this of me? Have you not done enough to...humiliate me in the past? You cannot, in all conscience expect me to—to take him in.’

  ‘There is nowhere else, Bella—nowhere that is safe—no one else I can trust.’

  Bella! He had called her Bella! No one else had called her that since he... Angrily she thrust such sentimental thoughts from her. ‘There has to be. You have a sister—Verity. Surely...’

  ‘With England under the rule of Parliament, Verity and her family have sought exile in France.’

  ‘Then why didn’t they take your son with them?’

  ‘I was too late.’

  ‘But why me? Why bring him to me?’

  ‘I have need of an ally in whom I can place complete trust. I sought you out because I thought that person might be you. There is a heavy price on my head. To lay their hands on my son would be a coup indeed for the Parliamentarians. Already the homes of my family and my estate in Oxfordshire have been invaded and torn apart by Parliament’s search for me and my son.’

  ‘And what of our safety?’ she demanded, her eyes burning with righteous anger that he could demand this of her. ‘By coming to this house you have endangered us all. To give succour to your son would count as treason to Parliament. They would hang us all.’

  ‘Not if you were to pass him off as your own should the need arise.’

  Appalled, Arabella stared at him. ‘You ask this of me?’ she gasped. ‘Have you no heart? I had a child, too, Edward—a daughter.’ Tears pricked her eyes and her throat drew tight as she thought of her own dead daughter. ‘She was called Elizabeth. She died of a fever just one year after I received news of my husband’s death.’

  ‘I am truly grieved to hear that,’ Edward said, compassion tearing through him. ‘Stephen told me about your daughter.’

  ‘Did he indeed? I am only surprised you remembered I existed at all. And now you come here and dare to ask me—a woman you have not seen in five years, a woman you had so little care for you broke our betrothal—to pass your son off as my own?’ Her words carried with them all the raw emotion she felt over the death of her child.

  Her words brought a look of pain to his eyes. ‘You are wrong, Arabella. I did care for you—deeply. I must confess that my conduct towards you at the time has been a cause of enormous regret for me and I hope that my manners have improved over the years.’

  Arabella was outraged, her eyes burning. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that, but I suppose because you believe you have acquired some manners, you thought it would be all right to come here when my brother suggested it. How dare you presume! How dare you think you could do that to me—to place me in such an impossible position?’

  ‘I do realise the gravity of the situation. It was not my intention to cause you hurt, Arabella.’

  Arabella’s emotions came rushing to the surface and the anguish of the last few unhappy years were released in one sweeping moment. ‘I don’t care. The answer is no. How can you do this to me—to ask me to take care of your child when I am still grieving for my own? I am not made of stone. How can you put me in a position where I must turn a child from the house?’ she cried with unutterable sorrow, deliberately not allowing her gaze to fall on the child in the woman’s arms. ‘But I must. I really cannot possibly... I cannot allow your child into my life...after what I have suffered—after what you did...’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘You are sorry? Being sorry is not enough.’

  His audacity took the breath from her body. She wanted to shout at him, to express all the heartbreak, pain, anger and the hatred and jealousy his alliance and marriage to Anne Lister had caused her. She prided herself on her calm dignity, her upright head and steadfast refusal to allow him to see how much he had tortured her spirit and her flesh. She would not, but she would dearly like to shout to the world of her outrage, her bitterness and revulsion at the idea and his nerve in bringing his child, Anne Lister’s child, into what she now considered to be her home. The loss of her daughter was with her for ever. In her sleep she dreamed of her. She would awaken with wet eyes, her face tearstained.

  ‘Dickon is my son, Arabella,’ Edward said, a fierce light in his eyes. ‘I have to make sure that he is safe.’

  ‘Why? Is there to be more strife? Is that what brought you here?’

  She knew this must be true since there had been a shifting of troops towards the west for some time now. Sam told of the Parliament army moving in great swathes towards the River Severn, with oxen and carts pulling canon and laden with deadly loads of powder kegs. Everyone was thankful they didn’t come within distance of Bircot Hall.

  ‘It is likely. I am to join the King’s army. Malcolm Lister will not rest until he has my son in his clutches.’

  Arabella stared at him, understanding at last why he was so desperate for her to care for his son. ‘So the two of you are still at loggerheads.’ She remembered Anne Lister’s brother. She had never liked him. There was a slipperiness about him and he possessed a streak of ruthlessness and an iron control that was chilling. Because Edward was a King’s man he had done his utmost to prevent him marrying his sister, but Anne had been determined. ‘I thought war would make a good substitute for private quarrels. You are a wanted man. You have put us all in grave danger by coming here.’

  ‘There was nothing else I could do. I will not surrender to them. Malcolm Lister knows that, which is why he will use my son, knowing he is the only reason I would give myself up to Parliament.’r />
  ‘Malcolm Lister is your brother-in-law. He would not hurt his nephew.’

  ‘I sincerely hope not. He married in the summer before the King raised his standard at Nottingham, all of nine years ago. It appears that his wife is unable to bear him a child so he has focused on Dickon. He hates the thought of him growing up a Royalist. As siblings Malcolm and Anne were close—he adored her and, for that reason and because of my allegiance to King Charles, he never forgave me for marrying her. He harbours some burning desire for revenge. He would take Dickon from me if he could and see me hanged. Do I have to remind you that the man is a Parliamentarian?’

  Without another word he turned on his heel to speak to the two men who accompanied him, his long legs eating up the ground with each stride. Arabella thought she never knew of any other man who could in so short a time fill a room with his presence and become the master of a house as if he owned every stick and stone of it.

  Arabella saw he had grown more worn, his face lined—the result of the endless anxieties that pressed upon him, but it was all still there: his self-assurance, his arrogance, his strength and his overbearing will which would let none cross him. There was still the twist to his strong mouth, that powerful, passionate certainty that though Edward Grey might be against the rest of the world, the fault was theirs, not his.

  Having deliberately refrained from looking at Edward’s son, Arabella now looked at the woman holding the boy. She was young with dark hair and a wide mouth. While she was hardly a beauty, she had a wholesome look. She also looked weary, the child heavy in her arms. Her unease on trying to hold on to the boy was evident. His gaze was steady and grave, although his rosy mouth trembled with tears that were not far away.

  Nanette’s tears had ceased and Alice seemed to take hold of herself. She spoke to Margaret. ‘Will you take Joan upstairs, Margaret—and see what you can find in the way of a bed and some food for her and the child? They must be tired and hungry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Joan uttered, her voice soft and strained. ‘We’ve been travelling all day. Something to eat and somewhere to lay the child would be welcome.’

  ‘Sir Edward,’ Alice said when he returned to them. ‘I am Alice, Stephen and Arabella’s elder sister. I can understand if you don’t remember me—it has been a long time.’

  ‘Of course I remember you,’ he said, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. ‘How could I forget? Our families were close before the war. When you visited your father in London, you were always welcoming and charming as I recall.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so. I bid you welcome to Bircot Hall.’

  Arabella bristled at her sister’s words. Edward Grey had destroyed her trust once, she was not so hasty to invoke such favour for a man whose motives she could not discern.

  ‘I am sorry that you see my home in a state of turmoil.’ Alice’s eyes shone with tears, but she did not acknowledge their presence. ‘Without our menfolk, as my sister explained, we have suffered greatly at the hands of the Parliamentarians. We have had several Roundhead patrols since. Mercifully they left us alone, but that does not guarantee that they will the next time. Robert, my husband, holds you in high esteem. It is indeed an honour to have you in our home.’

  Edward inclined his head. ‘Thank you. Your hospitality is greatly appreciated.’

  Arabella almost choked on the words that rose and stuck in her throat. How could Alice betray her when he had treated her, Arabella, so badly?

  As if sensing her anger, Alice gave her a look of reproof. ‘Calm yourself, Arabella. This is war and no time for private feuds.’

  So chastened, though unable to conceal the resentment she continued to feel for Edward Grey—a resentment that increased when she observed the amused twitch to his lips—Arabella dutifully clamped her own together.

  ‘We have had no news of my husband for months, Sir Edward,’ Alice said. ‘All I know is that he is in France.’

  ‘I am sorry I cannot help you, Lady Stanhope, but if he is in France then he will be safe.’

  ‘I thank God for that. It will be good to see Stephen again. If you are to stay overnight, the stables are at your disposal,’ Arabella was quick to say. ‘At least they are warm and dry.’

  ‘Arabella, where are your manners?’ Alice chided her once more. ‘Sir Edward and those with him are our guests. The house may be in a sorry state, but it has more rooms than we know what to do with.’ She smiled at Edward. ‘They are at your disposal. Now please excuse me. I will arrange for them to be made ready. The hour is late and I must put the children to bed.’

  Having removed his cloak, Arabella gasped when she saw a dark stain on Edward’s jacket.

  ‘You are wounded.’

  ‘I received a sword thrust in the shoulder during a skirmish with a small band of Roundheads on the way here. They were spoiling for a fight. Fortunately we fought them off—although Stephen held back to make quite sure we weren’t followed. It’s a common enough wound. One of the men dressed it, but it continues to bleed.’

  ‘Come with me and I will tend to it,’ she said curtly.

  Taking up a candle, she walked across the hall to the kitchens, through which the still room was located. It was where Alice liked to mix her own remedies. Arabella often helped her. It was clean and quiet and fragrant with summer smells of thyme, rosemary and lavender, berries and seeds, and herbs that were readily available in the hedgerows.

  Glad of the opportunity to speak with her alone, Edward followed her. Her skirts swayed gently as she walked and the line of her back was straight and graceful. Removing his jacket, his sling and his sword, he slipped his arm out of his shirt sleeve to expose the not-so-clean bandage covering his injured shoulder. Sitting on a stool, he waited for her to proceed.

  Trying to barricade herself behind a mask of composure as she held up the candle, Arabella’s gaze was reluctantly drawn to his exposed flesh. Lighting two more candles better to see, carefully she cut away the blood-soaked bandage. His bare, muscled arm and shoulder gleamed in the soft light. It was excruciatingly intimate to touch his flesh. It was warm and firm. He was strong, sleek but not gaunt, all sinew and strength, his muscles solid where her fingers touched.

  Forcing herself not to think about his manly physique and to focus on the raw wound, which drove such thoughts away, she inspected it carefully. It looked angry, a thin trickle of blood oozing from the lacerated flesh. Tentatively she felt the surrounding tissue with her finger. He winced. It was obviously painful to the touch.

  ‘The wound appears to be quite deep. It has to be cleaned. You say it happened earlier today?’

  ‘Hopefully it won’t have had time to fester.’ Watching her as she lit more candles, filled a bowl with water and gathered cloths with which to wash the wound, he said, ‘You have changed, Arabella.’

  ‘War does that to people,’ she answered, her manner brusque as she proceeded to clean the wound, her pale hands working quickly and efficiently.

  ‘I am sorry you’ve had to endure its hardships.’

  She shot him a look. ‘Why? You did not start the war.’

  When she began to wash the wound his expression tightened and he gritted his teeth. Her heart wrenched, having no wish to cause him more pain. Yet she was quietly pleased by the sight and it gave her some satisfaction of him being less that formidable.

  ‘How long have you been at Bircot Hall?’ he asked.

  ‘Two years now. We really are quite impoverished. We have managed to put some of the house back to some kind of order. The property will be restored later, when it can be afforded—when the war is over. We hope it will be soon—although when King Charles was executed we thought it was the end of Royalist hopes.’

  ‘Not when the Scots proclaimed his son King of Great Britain and after Cromwell routed the Royalists at Dunbar.’

  ‘You were there?’


  Edward nodded, as memories of that bloody battle slashed like a blade through his mind’s eyes. ‘I was there. I was one of the lucky ones. I managed to escape over the border and back into England, where I made my way south.’

  ‘We have heard that King Charles is heading south with a Scottish army. Is this true?’

  He nodded, avoiding her gaze. ‘It is. I will join him when I know Dickon is safe.’

  There was a stillness in the air, a foreboding that sent a cold shiver down her spine. ‘I can’t bear to think there is to be more fighting.’

  ‘We are all weary of it. There have been times when we were defeated, but we are not destroyed.’

  ‘And new plots are being devised to continue the fight every day. If you are killed? What then?’

  ‘If you agree to let Dickon remain here for the time being, should the Royalists be defeated, then I would ask you to take Dickon to my sister in France.’

  ‘I see.’ Pausing in her task, she cast him a wry glance. ‘Your audacity knows no bounds. You ask too much of me, Edward.’

  He met her gaze steadily. ‘I know. I am desperate, Arabella,’ he said softly. ‘My property has been confiscated. My son is all I have left. I have to know that he is safe. The war will end—but not as you or I would like. The way Cromwell has trained his army is something else. Never in England, until now, has there been an army like it. For the first time soldiers are properly trained. They proved how well at Dunbar.’

  Looking into his eyes, she saw there were haunted shadows and she guessed that, like every other soldier who had survived, the ugliness of the wars had left lasting scars on his mind. ‘So—what are you saying? That there is no hope?’

  ‘Unless the King can produce a miracle, the cause is doomed.’

  ‘I fear we are all doomed whatever the outcome.’

  ‘You sound bitter, Arabella.’

  She gave him a cold look. ‘Bitter? I remember those months after Marston Moor, when everyone thought the war must end. It seemed impossible then that it would start up again. How soon they were to be proved wrong. And now look at me. My husband is dead—along with our child. My father was killed at Naseby and my brother is preparing to prolong the fight. I have no home to call my own and I have been forced to throw myself on my sister’s charity, whose house has been violated by men who care nothing for the cause but only for what they can plunder from the homes of decent people without respect to their persons. Yes, Edward, I am bitter. Bitter that there are those not satisfied and continue to stir up the ugly storm of war, determined to drag it out to the bitter end.’