‘And you, Boreland,’ the marquis addressed him, ‘do you still wish to go after the prince?’
‘Well – ‘tis out of our hands,’ replied the other without looking up. ‘If Rowsell and Poyntz had carried on and overtaken His Highness, they could have given him proof of the support waiting for him –’
With an oath George Rowsell jumped up.
‘Damn you, Boreland, are you saying we are to blame? I tell you the cause was already lost before we reached Derby! We had to choose whether to follow the trail of his Scottish rabble – and they were none too particular about other people’s property, from what we heard in Derby, which did nothing for their popularity. It was follow them or keep our appointment here.’
‘Very well man, I’m not doubting your word,’ replied Boreland testily, ‘That red-hot temper of yours will be your downfall, Rowsell, unless I’m much mistaken!’
‘I trust it won’t prove to be ours, too!’ muttered the bishop.
The marquis laughed softly.
‘You may rest easy, Furminger, for I have hit upon a way of ensuring continued loyalty from every one of you.’
He reached up to his neckcloth and removed the ruby pin from its folds. His fingers moved around the intricate gold setting until they found the cunningly concealed catch. With a little pressure, the back of the jewel sprang open upon a tiny hinge.
‘Gad sir, that’s ingenious!’ declared Boreland.
‘It has its uses,’ murmured the marquis, handing the jewel to him.
Boreland looked closely at the brooch. Upon the outer face of the gold backing, the Thurleigh coat of arms had been engraved, and as he opened it wide, turning the jewel to catch the light, he drew a sharp breath of astonishment.
‘What is it, man?’ Rowsell peered over his shoulder.
‘The name of each one of us, neatly etched - it’s a death sentence, my lord!’
Thurleigh sat in his chair, smiling as they crowded round to look at the jewel. At length he held out his hand for the ruby and closing it up he replaced the jewel in his neckcloth.
‘Have no fear, gentlemen. That engraving shall not see the light again, so long as I have your unquestioning loyalty,’
He broke off as Poyntz re-entered, followed shortly by the landlord carrying a fresh supply of brandy and glasses, which he set down gently upon the table before quickly withdrawing.
‘Well, we may as well drink a final toast to the Stuarts. It will be a long time before we see their standard raised again in England.’ Boreland filled five glasses as he spoke, handing them to his companions.
The five gentlemen rose to their feet and tossed off the brandy, then Lord Thurleigh stepped forward to pick up the bottle.
‘Drink well, gentlemen, for who knows when we may be together again like this?’
Having recharged the glasses, Thurleigh weighed the empty bottle in his hand, then with a sudden ferocity he hurled it at the fireplace, where it shattered noisily, covering the hearth in a myriad of jagged pieces.
* * * *
At that moment the landlord returned, closely followed by a couple of his stable lads, scrubbed clean and each carrying a tray piled high with dishes. Bradgate’s usually smiling face was anxious as he surveyed the scene.
‘I do trust you will like the dinner, my lords,’ his voice was strained as he tried to sound genial. ‘My wife is still lying in, and it is my sister’s cooking I put before you, but I venture to think you won’t find it too disagreeable.’
‘And where is this sister of yours, Bradgate?’ called James Boreland, ‘Are we not to set eyes upon a woman in this infernal place?’
‘Ah sir, my sister has been suffering sorely from the gout these past weeks, and cannot manage the stairs,’ explained their host solemnly, ‘I fear ‘tis a sad fact, but we are neither of us as young as we used to be.’
‘What?’ cried Poyntz in high good-humour, ‘Do you have no pretty young women here for our delectation?’
‘As to that, sir, I am sorry to disappoint you, but you will find no females in this house save those I have mentioned,’ returned Bradgate, setting down his tray. ‘If it’s female company you are wanting, I’d recommend the Bear, where they are more used to dealing with gentlemen like yourselves. We are but a quiet country inn.’
‘Oh very well fellow,’ laughed Poyntz. ‘Take yourself off now, but if you can’t provide us with female company be sure to keep us well-supplied with your wine, sir!’
* * * *
The day was drawing to a close when the young girl arrived at the Black Goose. She walked across the courtyard, the low sun breaking through the clouds long enough to glint on the copper tints of her hair, which hung down over the shoulders of her green cloak. Her wooden pattens clattered loudly on the uneven cobbles of the yard as she made her way to a small black-painted door some distance from the main entrance of the inn. As she approached, the door swung open and the landlord stepped out from the dark interior.
‘Good day to you, Bradgate!’ she greeted him cheerfully and with a confidence far in advance of her years. ‘How is Mistress Bradgate today?’
‘She – she’s very much better, Miss Nell,’ stammered the man, looking surprised, ‘I did not look to see you here today.’
‘Mama promised to deliver a restorative to your wife, so I have come with it.’
‘That is very kind of you, Miss Nell, I’m sure, and if you’ll but give it to me, I shall see to it that Mrs Bradgate takes some this very day, and I shall tell her you called –’
‘You will do nothing of the sort!’ laughed the young lady, holding her basket closer, ‘I shall tell her so myself, and see the new baby. You need not look so anxious, Bradgate, for I distinctly remember the midwife telling me there can be no harm in a woman having visitors when she is lying in.’
‘Perhaps another time, then, Miss Nell, for I feel sure we shall have some rain soon-‘
‘Nonsense, the clouds are dispersing now, and we shall have a clear evening, I have no doubt, but if you are concerned that I shall overtire your wife, I promise you I shall not stay above ten minutes.’ She walked past him and into the dark shadow of the house, leaving the landlord to cast another anxious glance at the inn before following her inside.
Upstairs in the main guest-chamber, the five gentlemen were finishing their repast. The table was littered with empty dishes and an impressive array of bottles spilled over on to the windowsill and mantelshelf, while the diners themselves sprawled in their chairs, swords and coats discarded, waistcoats unbuttoned to display the finest lawn shirts. The exception was the bishop, who sat thoughtfully at the table, his cheeks faintly tinged with colour, but his air of nervousness still much in evidence.
He drained his glass and rose from his chair, saying with a forced brightness: ‘Well gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I believe I shall be on my way. The clearing sky gives me hope that it will be possible to make good time tonight -–I will just step out and order my coach –’
Lord Thurleigh stretched out one elegant leg and barred his path.
‘No, no, Furminger. We could not hear of such a thing,’ he purred. ‘This is, after all, your room, I believe. You hired it for the night, did you not? ‘Twould be such a pity to waste it.’
Julian Poyntz rolled a bleary eye at the bishop.
‘If I could find myself a willing petticoat I’d not waste it!’ he said with a coarse laugh. ‘Better than sharing a bed with Rowsell, at all events!’
‘By God, Poyntz, do you view everything through the hole in your prick?’ demanded Boreland, ‘Can you not forget women for one night?’
‘He may have the room with my compliments,’ Furminger assured them all earnestly. ‘As all our planning has come to nought I believe I might as well be away, for one cannot say how long this fine weather will hold, and the roads could become impassable overnight if we should have a heavy storm – ‘
‘You’ll stay!’ snarled Boreland, his large frame swaying unsteadily as he came across the room to tower over the bishop. ‘You were as keen as any of us to be free of that usurper, especially when there was a chance of glory! Well, tonight we are going to put this little set-back behind us and make merry, are we not, sirs?’
George Rowsell grunted as he refilled the glasses with an unsteady hand.
‘Aye. As merry as grigs,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Thank God the brandy’s tolerable, for ‘tis the only amusement this place has to offer.’ He muttered an oath as the brandy slopped onto the table. ‘Light’s so bad I can scarce see,’ he complained.
‘Admit it, Rowsell, you’ve caught a fox,’ laughed Poyntz. ‘There’s light enough for a while yet.’
‘I may well be half-sprung, but I’m in no wise incapable of filling a glass,’ retorted Rowsell, offended by the allegation that he was drunk. ‘Since Bradgate is now come to light the candles, I think that proves my point.’
The landlord smiled in a perfunctory manner and after he had performed his task he set to gathering up the dishes that were scattered over the table.
‘I thought you said there were no women at the inn, Bradgate,’ remarked Poyntz, looking out of the window.
The landlord looked up, startled.
‘Nor are there, sir, saving my wife and sister.’
‘Then what is that I see in your courtyard, an apparition?’
Bradgate swallowed nervously and came slowly to the window.
‘Oh, that – that is just one of the village children. On some errand, I daresay.’
The marquis had been sitting quietly beside the fire, lost in his own thoughts behind an impassive countenance but the landlord’s obvious agitation caught his attention and he stirred himself sufficiently to rise and look out into the courtyard. There below was a girlish figure wrapped in a sage-green cloak, bending to stroke the inn’s black cat as it rubbed around her ankles. My lord’s lips drew back into a thin, cruel smile.
‘You wanted some distraction, Rowsell. It seems you are in luck. Fetch her up here, Bradgate.’
The innkeeper paled.
‘My lord – she is the daughter of a respectable family – her father is a very learned gentleman –’
His lordship remained unmoved.
‘I have a score to settle with that young lady. Send her up.’
‘But sir, she is just a child –’
‘Do as you are bid!’ snarled the marquis, his hard grey eyes snapping, ‘Unless, of course, you have forgotten who owns this land. Perhaps you would like to find yourself another hostelry tomorrow….’
White with fear, the landlord hurried away, to return moments later with the young girl at his side. Her hood was thrown back to reveal her glorious head of thick, red-brown tresses, framing a face alight with innocent curiosity. She gazed about her with puzzled interest until her eyes reached the marquis, who had resumed his seat, and a faint blush tinged her soft cheek.
‘Leave the child with us.’
After the briefest hesitation, Bradgate withdrew silently, leaving the girl standing alone by the door, clutching her basket. A large, bearded man came unsteadily towards her, rubbing his chin with one powerful hand.
‘Well, here’s a treasure,’ leered Boreland, his tone slurred. He stationed himself by the door, ‘Who would have thought to discover such a piece of perfection in this out of the way spot.’
‘I – I expect you wish me to apologise for my incivility today, my lord.’ She spoke directly to Lord Thurleigh, her soft, well-modulated tones holding no hint of fear.
‘Oh, more than that, my dear.’
‘I am sorry, sir, I do not understand you.’
‘We want the pleasure of your company for a little while,’ explained Boreland, taking the basket from her and dropping it into one corner. Ignoring her protests he untied her cloak and tossed it after the basket. ‘Come, sit with us and have a glass of wine.’
The girl allowed herself to be guided to the table, where a brimming glass of burgundy was pressed into her hand.
‘I – I cannot stay,’ she began, a faint tremor in her voice, I am expected at home -’
‘All in good time, my dear,’ Rowsell drew his chair closer, ‘tell me your name.’
‘Elinor Burchard, sir. Of Rock Cottage.’
‘And how old are you, Elinor Burchard of Rock Cottage?’
‘Just sixteen, sir.’
‘Fair sixteen,’ he murmured, eyeing her appreciatively. ‘Drink you wine, my dear,’ He pushed the glass a little closer to her lips while his other hand slipped around her back. ‘You must be very warm with your kerchief wrapped so tightly about you,’ he murmured, tugging at the knot.
It came free almost immediately and he pulled the muslin from her shoulders, revealing the low bodice of her gown, leaving the snowy frill of her shift just visible, with the soft white skin above.
‘A comely lass, and already well-formed,’ remarked Poyntz, running his eyes over the shapely figure that was now exposed.
‘I want to go home!’ cried Elinor, jumping up. The wine from her glass spilled over as she set it down upon the table. She turned her green eyes pleadingly towards the bishop, who was still sitting silently at one side. ‘Sir,’ she beseeched him, ‘I see you are a man of God – pray tell them to let me go!’
Bishop Furminger’s pale blue eyes shifted uneasily towards the marquis, but there was no compassion in that cruel, thin face.
‘Alas, my child, the bishop is unable to help you. His influence here is – minimal. In fact, I am the one you should appeal to. You know who I am?’
‘Yes my lord. You are Lord Thurleigh, Lord Lieutenant of this county.’
‘Then why do you not ask me for leave to go?’
Hesitantly Elinor stepped towards him. He watched her approach, his face impassive.
‘Kneel!’
After a slight pause, she sank to her knees, her head bowed. My lord reached out a hand and, cupping her chin, he tilted her face up towards him. Thurleigh noted the flawless skin, the fresh, innocent face with its straight little nose and soft inviting lips. She reminded him of his Margaret, when she had first become his bride – indeed, even the eyes were very nearly the same colour. The thought did not please him and he pushed it away, but already he felt the first stirring of desire. He looked into the girl’s sea-green eyes: they were full of apprehension and wet with unshed tears.