The Monmouth Summer (31 page)

But it was late, and they were too far away to tell. The glow died slowly, as they watched, until at last it was only a small red spot to the north, and the men glanced at the millions of clear stars above them, glad that it would be a dry night, and turned to stumble wearily back to their camp.

T
HE VOICES of the girl and the man filled the little panelled room, so that everywhere was music, and the little rushlight on the table that lit the deep golden red hair and shining eyes of the one, and the dark wig and the solemn face of the other, seemed like the centre of the world.

"When nothing could my fancy please,

At last I fell into a dream;

Methought I saw upon the seas

A ship that sailed against the stream

And so do they that seek to find

Content but in a quiet mind."

Their voices blended and completed each other, flowing together in harmony, like the clear surface of a stream and the deep current beneath. On the last note Robert dropped his voice to an absurdly low rumble in his chest, as though his part of the stream had dropped into a pothole, and Ann's high suprano wavered helplessly until the two streams broke over a waterfall and cascaded into laughter which filled the tiny room, setting the rush flame leaping and dancing between them. At last they paused, and the song faded into the silence of memory.

"'Tis true enough," said Ann reflectively. "If time would just stop now, perhaps I could have content and a quiet mind."

But Robert refused to be solemn. "If only time would stop? You are like the child who wants the impossible, and forgets what she has already! Think of the time we have now, for instance!" And he burst suddenly into lively song:

'See, mine own sweet jewel

Mine own sweet jewel, mine own sweet jewel!

See what I have for my darling,

A robin a robin redbreast  and a starling!

These I give in hope to move thee

And yet thou sayest I do not love thee!'

As he sang he pretended to pull little birds out of all the pockets of his coat and set them carefully before her, and then at the end suddenly gazed distractedly around the room, as though they had all flown away.

She laughed again, with a laughter that somehow would not stop, but came bubbling out of her almost painfully, yet with a glorious sense of release, so that at last when she stopped she felt quite calm and happy. She smiled at him, wiping the tears from her eyes.

"Oh Robert, it's so good to laugh with you again! I know no one who can sing so foolishly as you!"

"Nor I as you. Come here." He patted the side of the wooden chest on which he was sitting, and she got up and sat beside him, her eyes still smiling, her mouth soft and longing. He slipped his arm around her waist and looked at her for a long, quiet moment before they kissed, a gentle, exploratory kiss that neither dared break nor take any further, until at last they drew uncertainly apart.

"You don't hate me any more, then?" he asked. She watched the way his brows crinkled slightly in that puzzled frown as he spoke, as though he could not quite believe that she was there.

"No." They came together in another kiss, longer and more passionate this time, and she felt herself as exquisitely relaxed as she had always been with Robert, at once thrilled and quite guiltless, as though she were in a dream.

They paused at last for breath, and he stroked the line of her jaw gently where the bruise marked it. "Kissing doesn't hurt it?"

"No. I wouldn't mind if it did."

"I think the bruise makes you look better. It shows off the perfection of the rest."

"Nonsense. It just adds to my bad points."

"You don't have any bad points. I chose you because of that. You are perfection."

"Flatterer! You say that to everyone." But she did not want to believe that, not tonight, not now.

"You kiss to perfection too." They were silent for another long moment, while the only sound in the room was the rustle of their clothes and the creak of the oak chest, and the rise and fall of distant voices and laughter downstairs. There was a shared sigh as the kiss ended.

"Come to bed." He stood up, holding her hand, and gently pulled her to her feet. She sat down beside him on the bed. He put his hand on her breast.

"No, Robert."

His hand fondled the breast lovingly, and his other hand fumbled with the drawer strings round the bodice. There was a look in his eyes that reminded her of something.

"No ...”

"Let me see. Take it off."

"No, Robert, please.
Don't touch me!"
She was on her feet, shaking, her voice high and raw after the silence. She fancied the voices downstairs died away, and then rose again in a shouted laugh.

"What's the matter?"

No answer. She stood there, her bodice slightly loosened, her rich auburn hair hanging, half-hiding her face from the rushlight, in an attitude that drove him mad with desire.

"Take it off! Or I will." He rose, and grabbed her arm. but she flung away from him so violently that he dropped it, and stumbled over the stool. When he recovered she was standing by the door, a knife from the table in one hand, the door handle in the other.

"Don't you touch me! I'll kill you!" Her voice was low and desperate, her eyes wide and wild. He stared, seeing the person now and not the body. He let his hands fall to his sides, and stood still.

"Ann."

She watched him, and turned the door handle, as though she would go out. The knife wavered in her hand. "Promise you won't touch me. Promise you won't say that to me."

"Not if you don't want me to. All right, I promise."

She put the knife down on the table, and sat down on a chair where she could reach it. Then she folded her arms on the table and burst into tears.

"Whatever is it?" He moved forward to put his arm around her, then stopped as she jerked her head up and grabbed the knife again. He sat down warily on the chair the other side of the table.

"I don't mean to hurt you, you know. It doesn't hurt. Well, only the first time and then not much, I think."

She looked at him with eyes of wonder, as though she could not believe what he was saying.

“Robert, I
can’t.
Not now.” The light from the rushlight picked out glints of gold in her hair, and the beauty of it and the deep soft whisper of her voice ached in him, so that he hardly knew what she was saying.

“But why not? It’s the perfect time. No-one will disturb us.”

“No!”
She had not shouted, but the vehemence of the word so filled the room that he thought it must have been heard all over the inn. He remembered the good-humoured laughs and knowing winks as he had said he was eating upstairs.

“So it’s up to your old tricks, is it? Leading me on and then changing your mind at the last minute again. In case your mother finds out, or your father. Or is it your conscience this time, perhaps? God would have to have a hand in it, I suppose, with your damned Puritan rebellion!”

“No, Rob. Please don’t!” She was shocked by the blasphemous way he spoke, although she knew she should not be. She had gone past that already, in her own mind. “It’s not that, it’s not God at all, or my father, or the rebellion. It’s not any of that. I want to, I do ... only I
can’t!
Don’t you see? Not now.”

“Why not now?” His voice was cold, like a whiplash. He did not see at all.

“Because ... I don’t know. It makes me feel ill. It frightens me – it’s like those soldiers in the wood.”

“I am like the soldiers in the wood? The ones that were flogged?”

“Oh, don’t be angry, Rob. I don’t mean
you
are like them. It’s just what you want to do. They made me take my clothes off, you saw that. They ... raped the little girls.”

“And you think I want to do that?” He could not stand it, he had to get up and walk around the room. Her hand made a slight movement towards the knife and that made him even more angry. He whipped round on her furiously.

"You don't understand anything, do you? You're just a silly little country girl from a muddy little village full of canting Presbyterian killjoys who would forbid walking if they thought they could! You've got so little idea of life that you think all a gentleman wants to do is sing songs and give you flowers and a few kisses, and that anyone who wants to do any more is going to rape you and then abandon you with a baby in your belly like some drunken yokel from your village! You can't imagine anything more than that, can you? And so that's what you'll get, because you're not worth anything more!"

"But it was your soldiers who tried to rape me, Rob." She stared at him, pale with shock, her voice little above a whisper.

"And so you think I am like them. Well, I'm sorry, but I must disappoint you."

He strode to the door, opened it, and went out. She sat at the table, listening to his shoes clattering down the stairs. The flame of the rushlight fluttered, and then steadied as the air in the room grew still. "I love you, Robert," she whispered, and then walked slowly over to her bed, lay down, and cried soundlessly with her face to the wall.

"I
DON'T see it, John, I don't see it at all!" Adam Carter heard the strain and tension in his own voice, but he could not control it. "The city's over there, in sight of us. Why don't we just go in and take it?"

"Trust King Monmouth, Adam. I don't know. I'm sure he's got his reasons." But John Spragg sounded no more composed than his friend.

In truth it seemed inexplicable. The whole army had risen early to the urgent beat of drums, and after a hasty breakfast had formed up and marched smartly away, each man nursing his courage for the fight, checking his weapons, going through the musket or pike drill in his mind, keeping close to his neighbours, and looking ahead for the sight of the enemy. They had crossed the Avon bridge at Keynsham, cheering the troop of horse who had captured it in the night and repaired the militia's clumsy attempts to destroy it. By ten o'clock in the morning they had been formed up in Sydenham Mead, a meadow on the east of the city. In front of them were the white walls of Bristol, the second city in all the kingdom, the key to their campaign in the west.

Adam had stared at the walls silently. His lips had been dry and he had felt a pulse throbbing urgently in his neck, but he had not been afraid. Not then. Instead he had felt gloriously certain that this was the moment of victory, when the army would break through into the heart of England, and he himself would triumph over all his fears. The larksong overhead had sounded to him like the music of angels, as he waited for the order to attack.

None came. At twelve o'clock Roger Satchell had ordered them to sit down in their ranks and rest; at one o'clock he and Sergeant Evans took them through their musket and pike drill, though they did not fire a volley. Now it was mid-afternoon and they were still waiting, no enemy in sight, their initial resolution torn to ribbons by doubts, complaints, and hunger.

"I wish those buggers'd go away. Sergeant, can't us use one of they gentry for a bale of hay?"

"Not unless you promise only to knock their hats off, boyo. They're too expensive, see."

William Clegg's request raised a slight laugh in the ranks, but most men were too annoyed to think it funny. No enemy had come out of Bristol to meet them, but instead a crowd of about a hundred sight-seers, mostly curious gentry from the villages round about. Some of them even wandered here and there among the ranks, looking at their arms and talking to the men.

"'Tis bloomin' ridiculous," muttered John Spragg angrily. "I might just as well have a monkey on me shoulder, and hold out me hat for a farthing."

"We should have fallen on the city last night, when they sent us a sign," said Israel Fuller. "The Lord would have delivered it into our hands."

"He will too now, if we wait," said Adam. "We've got this far. He won't abandon us now." His fine hopes of the morning were fading now, in the midday sun, but they were still alive. It had to happen, they had to take the city. Monmouth must have good reasons for waiting. He knew more than they did; their job was to keep themselves in good spirits, ready for the fight.

Roger Satchell took up Adam's lead. "Come on, lads, how about another psalm? Sergeant Evans, you lead us."

There were several sighs and groans, but Sergeant Evans  struck up the twenty-third psalm in his strong baritone, and the whole company followed him, one or two hurriedly leafing through their well-thumbed Bibles, but most knowing the words by heart. A group of the gentlemen spectators came over to watch them, and laughingly applauded at the end.

"Don't worry about them, lads," said Evans scornfully. "Let's try another one now, number 146. Let's see if we can really reach those city walls, like they did at Jericho."

"Raise ye your voices to the Lord on the field of battle, and He will hear ye," intoned Israel Fuller. Again they sang, their deep droning voices prompting other regiments to join them. All along the meadow the anthem went up, the long solemn lines of men offering praise to their Lord.

In the middle of the psalm it began to rain. Heavy, isolated drops fell at first, almost immediately becoming a steady, torrential downpour. The rain sent the spectators hurrying to their horses, and ran down Adam Carter's face in streams, so that no-one would have known if tears of frustration had come into his eyes at the scorn with which the Lord had rewarded their song.

The rain continued, and its first heavy downpour settled into a steady, dispiriting drizzle that soaked them all from head to foot, trickling down collars and into boots, turning the ground beneath their feet to mud as they splashed miserably back across the Avon bridge to Keynsham. There was talk of a night attack, and some clung to the idea desperately as they tried to build fires with wet wood to cook and dry themselves in the evening, but most were too weary to care.

"While there's food there's hope," said Philip Cox, stirring a pot of rabbit stew they had rigged on a tripod over a smoky fire. He poked the meat to see if it was tender enough, sending a tantalising fragrance around the waiting group.