Reckless Angel (19 page)

Dawn broke on Tuesday, January 30. Daniel rose in silence, dressed in silence, and strode in the same silence down the stairs to the front door. Henrietta ran after him, struggling with the hooks and buttons of her riding habit.

“I am coming with you.”

“No, you are not!” he pronounced with ferocious vehemence, more shocking coming as it did after the prolonged silence. “You will stay here within doors until I return.” The door opened, a lance of freezing air thrust through the damp chill of the hall, then the door slammed.

She stood for a minute, huddling into her still-unfastened jacket, numbed fingers fumbling with the hooks.

“Come you into the kitchen and feel the fire, m'dear.” Dorcas spoke at her back, one hand rubbing her arm in gentle comfort. “'Tis best to leave him with his devils; and this day is one when evil runs rampant.”

“Aye.” Henrietta turned and followed Dorcas into the kitchen, where the fire blazed in the range, the lamps burned, defying the lowering gloom of a January dawn, and Joe and the goodman sat stolidly breaking their fast, as if the king was not to die this day at the hands of his people.

Dorcas set a bowl of curds and white bread before Henrietta, and a redcurrant cordial that instantly brought warmth to the cold, empty pit of her stomach. It was soothing nourishment, which strengthened as it soothed, and Henrietta finally rose from the table with quiet determination.

“My thanks, Dorcas. 'Twas much needed. I go to Whitehall, now.”

“Sir Daniel will not be pleased.” Dorcas made the statement neutrally, almost as if she felt it her duty to do so, but her duty extended no further.

“I will not be excluded from this that touches him so nearly,” Henrietta said quietly. “If my husband is to stand in suffering, a helpless observer, then I too will suffer that. I cannot share it else.”

“You must do what you must.” Dorcas cleared platters from the table. “But have a care. The streets will be uneasy.”

“They have been so these past weeks.”

Dorcas simply nodded. It was for each wife to decide where wifely duty lay. If this one saw it thus, then she would not argue with her. “Joe will go with you.”

The youth did not look overjoyed at the prospect of the excursion, but his mother slapped his shoulder. “Great lump!” she said. “Get along with you and make sure Lady Drummond meets with no offense.”

Although she would not have asked for it, Henrietta accepted the escort with relief, and once they were out in the city, her relief became heartfelt. The streets were filled with a tide of people, moving inexorably in the same direction, slow yet purposeful, like some behemoth closing in on its prey. Once they had joined the tide, turning aside was an impossibility. One became a part of the beast.

Thin, wintery sunshine broke through the clouds as they neared Whitehall, illuminating the scaffold set up outside the Banqueting House. The crowd surged forward, and Henrietta found herself part of a group flowing ahead of the rest. Without intending it she was in the front lines of the spectators, who fell dreadfully silent as they looked upon the scaffold with its grooved wooden block. The executioner stood there already, his long-handled instrument of justice in his hand. The sun caught the wicked curve of the silver blade. What did it feel like to know that your arm would strike off the head of the King of England?

Henrietta stared at the man as if she could read his thoughts, but the mask lent him an unreal air, separated him from the hard shapes and contours of the real world. She looked around her for the large, bumbling familiarity of Joe and could not see him. There were just strangers' faces, registering every emotion from lust to horror as they waited. Panic quivered in her belly. She tried to inch backward, away from her proximity to the scaffold, but the human wall at her back was impermeable. Desperately, she scanned the crowd, praying for a glimpse of Joe, or maybe Daniel. He was here, she knew. But where?

Then a low murmur grew in the throng, swelling to a sound part anticipatory, part horror-struck as a troop of soldiers emerged from Whitehall gate. Charles Stuart walked in their midst. His head was bare. To see the king bareheaded amongst his covered subjects struck Henrietta as the most dreadful aspect of this dread affair. It was absurd, she knew, to fix upon such a thing, but it seemed to symbolize the almost hallucinatory quality of the morning.

Now, she could do nothing but gaze as the scene played out before her. The king mounted the scaffold, which was immediately surrounded by ranks of soldiers so deep that when His Majesty turned to address the crowd his voice could not carry far enough. He gave his coat to an attendant, scorned the blindfold, spoke words of forgiveness to his executioner, and knelt. Now there was a silence so immense it seemed impossible it could ever be broken. Sun sparked off silver as the blade rose and fell in one clean, sweeping movement. A mighty groan broke from the crowd; a groan of despair and disbelief; a sound to wrench the vitals, rising, swelling in the air. Tears poured unheeded down her cheeks as Henrietta heard her own keening, mixing with the sound all around her.

Then someone shouted, the crowd surged, pressed forward, then ebbed as people struggled to break rank. Troops of horses were bearing down on them, their riders brandishing pike and halberd, intent on the speedy
dispersal of the grieving throng. One troop marched on them from the direction of Charing Cross, another herded them toward Charing Cross, so that all was confusion as the crowd scattered hither and thither, desperate to avoid the rearing, plunging horses and the prodding pikes.

Henrietta concentrated on keeping her footing. Nothing else seemed important. She had no control over where she went, but she knew that if once she slipped and went down beneath the stampeding feet, she would never get up again. Her small stature was a grave disadvantage, and she lamented bitterly at having lost Joe's bulky support. He could have held her up as she was tossed forward, backward, sideways, according to the ebb and flow of the tide.

Salvation came in the dark, narrow opening of a doorway. Just before she was carried past, she managed to duck beneath the arm of a burly individual brandishing a heavy stave and gain the safety of the doorway. Gasping for breath, she huddled against the door frame as the tide swept past her. She had no idea where she was, but at least she could stand upright and still, and at some point this great, milling mass of bodies would have gone.

Daniel was on horseback. Anticipating the possibility of mayhem, he had stationed himself well away from the press, and had left before the troops began their maneuvers. Thus, he reached Paternoster Row with little difficulty, hearing the swelling murmur of the crowd behind him. He felt cold, drained, empty of all feeling. It was over. That was all he could think of. He was too numbed to feel outrage anymore. In fact, he had done his grieving in advance and now lapsed into torpor…until Dorcas informed him that Henrietta had gone to Whitehall with Joe.

He snapped back to his senses as if his head had been held under a pump. “But I forbade her to leave the house!” He stared at Dorcas as images of the rioting crowd filled his vision. “Sweet Jesus!” He turned and ran back into the street, gazing wildly around,
wondering which way to go. It was madness to go toward the crowd, but he could not just stand there like a paralyzed dolt. Then he saw Joe running toward him. Joe, but no Henrietta.

“Where the hell is she?” he demanded, grabbing the youth's coat front with a violent jerk.

“I lost her, Sir Daniel,” Joe blurted. “I'm sorry, sir, but I couldn't 'elp it. One minute she was there, close to the scaffold, then she wasn't. I looked everywhere, but there's so many, 'tis impossible.” His breath was coming in sobs, not helped by the continued jerking as Daniel without conscious thought shook him. “I came back as fast as I could, sir. I did, really.”

The words finally penetrated. Daniel released him abruptly. “I beg your pardon, Joe. I did not mean to handle you roughly,” he said, trying to clear his head, to focus on what really mattered. “You lost her at Whitehall?”

“Aye, sir.” Joe nodded vigorously.

“Before the…before they killed the king?”

“Aye, sir.” Joe's face darkened. “'Twas a dreadful sight.”

“Fetch my horse. I have just taken him back to the stable.” It was probably futile, but he could not keep an anguished vigil, praying for her reappearance. He mounted and set off to retrace his steps.

Henrietta stayed in her doorway until the tide became a trickle. It was a long wait, but nothing would prevail upon her to leave her haven until the mêlée had dissipated. There were still soldiers, but they took no notice of her as she slipped out of concealment and stood, bewildered, wondering where she was and in what direction lay St. Paul's. Plucking up courage, she approached one of the troopers, who gestured with his pike. “That-a-way, mistress.”

She thanked him and wearily trudged off. It seemed a much greater distance returning than coming, but earlier she had not yet seen what she had seen, endured what she had just endured. Every bone in her body felt bruised, her muscles ached, her skin was sore,
and the dreadful memories would not leave her, sapping her of all remaining energy.

Daniel saw her just as he was beginning to think he could not control his panic any longer. He had kept down all thought of what might have happened to her as he combed the streets, the main thoroughfares, and the alleys, seeing only the shocked faces of strangers stumbling in their bewilderment. Then, as he came down Ludgate Hill from St. Paul's for the second time, he saw the small figure dragging herself up the hill, eyes on the ground as she put one foot in front of the other with conscious deliberation. She had lost her hat and the neck ruffle of her shirt was torn.

He descended on her in a squall of pounding hooves. She looked up, shocked and fearful, at the imperative menace of the sound. Then the horse came to a heaving halt and Daniel twisted sideways in the saddle, catching her under the arms and hauling her up. For one horrified moment, she thought he was going to fling her facedown across the saddle in front of him, such wild fury she had seen on his face in the bare second before he seized her. But she landed with a thump on the saddle before him, dazed and bruised but upright. He said not a word, simply turned his horse and rode back to the house.

In the absence of invitation to speak, Henrietta also kept mute, but her insides were churning with alarm. This was not the Daniel she knew. His face was a mask of anger, the black eyes saber tips of fury, and the body at her back was rigid with the effort at restraint.

Outside the house, he flung himself from the horse, pulled Henrietta down, and stalked into the hall, bellowing for Joe to see to his mount. Joe and Dorcas both appeared in the kitchen doorway. Dorcas's hand flew to her mouth as she saw Daniel's expression and Henrietta's white-faced alarm. She started to say something, but Daniel marched to the stairs, half dragging, half carrying Henrietta with him.

“You dare to disobey me, on this day of all days!”
He spoke at last, kicking the bedchamber door shut behind them.

“I did not go alone,” she stammered. “Joe was with me. Only we became separated—”

“I did not give you permission to leave this house with Joe or with anyone,” he bit out, still gripping her arms. “Do you think I did not know what was going to happen in the streets?”

Henrietta swallowed, trying not to flinch from him as he held her. “I had to go,” she said. “I knew you would be suffering, and I had to be a part of it so I could understand how you felt.” She shivered suddenly, and tears filled her eyes. “I saw it! I saw the ax fall…I saw him, bareheaded, with the soldiers who kept their heads covered…” Tears clogged her throat and she put a hand up to massage it as if the external pressure would ease the internal.

Daniel released her suddenly. “Go and stand by the window. I am so angry I cannot trust myself near you.” He swung away from her toward the fire, and she scuttled across the room to stand on the far side of the bed.

“I would not be excluded from your pain,” she said with difficulty, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. “You would not take me, so I had to go alone.”

Daniel rested his arms on the mantel shelf, letting his head drop onto his hands. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied. “I managed to find safety in a doorway until the crowd had passed, but I saw what happened to some. I knew that I must not lose my footing or—” Her teeth began to chatter as a shock wave of cold and nausea washed across her.

Daniel turned from the fire, running his fingertips across his lips as he looked at her and allowed the meaning of her words to penetrate his fear-fueled anger. She had gone to Whitehall in order to experience his suffering, so that she could understand it and share it. It was an extraordinary thing to do, yet, if he really thought about it in the light of Henrietta herself, it was entirely reasonable. It bore all the marks of the deter
mined courage she exhibited in the cause of others. He had thought her too young, too naive and inexperienced in the ways of the world, to be involved in his agony. He had refused to confide in her, so she had taken matters into her own hands in a predictably simple and direct fashion. And she had suffered for it. He looked at her as she stood, shivering, gray-faced, the big eyes haunted by what they had seen.

Without saying anything, he left the room and went down to the kitchen. When he returned ten minutes later with a tray on which stood two steaming tankards and a plate of gingerbread, she was still standing as he had left her, except that she was looking out of the window onto the street below.

“Come to the fire,” he said quietly, setting the tray on the side table. “Y'are in need of warmth. There's mulled wine and some of Dorcas's gingerbread straight from the oven.”