Intrigued. Bertrice Small
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Hailey, the Scots left their position of strength in the hills to come down to the plain. They did it once before at the first battle of Dunbar, several hundred years ago. They do not, it seems, learn from their mistakes. They lost that first battle for the same reason,” the Duke of Lundy told his companions.
“How do you know so much about it, Charlie?” asked his friend, Lord Moreland.
“My mother sent a messenger down from Scotland to tell my sister that her father had been killed at Dunbar. The messenger was one of the few survivors from my stepfather’s troop. He told me all about the battle. When Jemmie Leslie fell, his people took his body and withdrew. You know the reputation Cromwell’s men have for piking the wounded, and stealing everything they can from the bodies. The Glenkirk men didn’t intend to leave their duke to such tender mercies. They took his body, gathered up the horses, and made their way home.”
“Jemmie Leslie dead? I can hardly believe it,” Lord Moreland said.
“God rest him,” Lord Hailey, who had been the Duke of Glenkirk’s contemporary, replied. “I remember him trying to court your mother, and hunting with your grandfather and uncles. He was a good man! Damn Cromwell and his revolution!”
“You sound like my sister,” Charlie said with a small chuckle, “although she refers to ‘Cromwell. and his pocky Roundheads.’ ”
“Not publicly, I hope,” Lord Hailey said, concerned.
“I have warned her about curbing her tongue,” the duke said. “It will be better when our mother arrives.”
“Your mother is coming down from Scotland? God’s blood, man! She’ll never make it with all those parliamentary troopers running amuck about the countryside. Can you not stop her?” Lord Hailey demanded.
“Nay, I cannot,” Charlie said simply. “She’ll travel well protected, I assure you. As for the rumors of my cousin, Charles, fleeing Scotland, put no stock in it. Charles has not yet been properly crowned. He will remain at least until that notable event has taken place.”
“But Cromwell’s people hold Edinburgh,” Lord Moreland reasoned, draining his tankard of wine.
“Scots kings are traditionally crowned at Scone, and our forces hold Scone,” the duke answered.
“And when the king is formally crowned, will Scotland rise up to aid him?” Lord Plympton said.
“I don’t know,” Charlie said quietly, and he refilled his own tankard. “Scotland has been torn for years by religious strife. I would not be surprised if they had not had enough of war and desire nothing more than peace. If this desire is stronger than their nationalism, and loyalty to King Charles II, then we in England must take up the king’s banner to rid ourselves of these Roundheads and Puritans.”
The air was blue with the haze from their pipes as the men smoked their Virginia tobacco, drank wine and October ale, and talked among themselves. The English were, they knew, just as tired of war. Would anyone have the energy to overthrow Cromwell and the Parliamentarians? Most of them had not trusted the Scots Stuart kings who had followed old Queen Bess almost fifty years ago. Still, this second Charles Stuart had been born in England and was well liked. He was, to their minds, the Stuarts’ first real English king. There were those sitting among them who considered that if the late Prince Henry, who had been King James I’s eldest son, had been permitted to wed with the beautiful widowed Marchioness of Westleigh, now Jasmine Leslie, it would have been this Charles Frederick Stuart seated with them here tonight who would have been their king. And he would not have alienated the parliament and their Puritan allies the way his uncle, Charles I, had done. Charles Frederick Stuart would not have lost his head.
“So,” grumbled Lord Plympton, “we must sit here helpless while we are governed by a bunch of commoners who have had the temerity to dissolve the House of Lords and claim to have abolished our monarchy. Bah, say I, to all of them!”
His companions laughed. They felt just as helpless as did their companion, but for now they were forced to wait for their king. Suddenly the door to their private room flew open to admit the plump and breathless Lord Billingsly.
“Get you home, those of you who can!” he gasped. “There are Roundhead troopers been seen in the area. And the rumor is, they are being led by Sir Simon Bates, the cold-hearted devil who slaughtered Sir Gerald Croft’s family over in Oxfordshire!”
“Who told you that, Billingsly?” Lord Moreland demanded.
“I saw the Roundheads myself as I rode toward the town. Believe you me, I got behind the nearest hedge as fast as I could,” came the honest reply. “I’m not of a mind to make my wife a widow yet, gentlemen.”
“She’d be the merriest widow in England, Puritans or no,” murmured Lord Moreland to the Duke of Lundy.
“Damnation!” Charlie swore. “I can’t leave for Queen’s Malvern until the morning, for there is no moon to light the road. Bess is alone with Autumn and the children.”
“Billingsly may be mistaken,” Lord Moreland soothed his friend.
“I’m not!” came the indignant response. “Get home as quickly as you can, my lord duke, though they did not seem to be headed in your direction. Still, I would want to be with my family if they came my way.”
“I’ll go at first light,” Charlie said.
“What about your little lad?” Moreland asked.
“Freddie comes with me,” the duke said. “His mother would have a fit if I left him behind, even for safety’s sake. Jesu! I hope those bastards don’t come near Queen’s Malvern. My sister will be unable to keep her temper, especially with her father now dead at Cromwell’s hands. God have mercy on us all, gentlemen. We’ll meet again when we can, though the lord knows when that will be.”
The duke, his son, and their men departed Worcester just before first light the following morning. At that same time a cowherd in a field at Queen’s Malvern saw the troop of soldiers coming toward him in the distance and ran as fast as he could for the house, shouting as he went to warn anyone within hearing of his voice.
“Roundheads! Roundheads!” the cowherd yelled at the top of his voice. “Roundheads coming over the hill!” He dashed through the kitchen gardens into the buttery with his news.
A serving wench ran up the stairs from the kitchens to warn the rest of the house. The duchess hurried from her bedchamber to the nurseries. The nursemaids already had Sabrina and little Willy up, and were dressing them as quickly as they could.
“Take the children into the gardens and hide,” Bess said.
“No, Mama!” Sabrina cried. “I want to be with you!”
“You will go to the gardens with Mavis and Clara,” the duchess said firmly, and hurried from the nurseries.
“What is happening?” Autumn came from her room with Lily in her wake.
“Roundheads,” Bess said.
“In Worcester?”
“They send out raiding parties now and again to frighten the royalist population,” her sister-in-law replied. “Perhaps you should go with the children.”
“Nay, I’ll stay with you, Bess. What of the valuables?”
“We buried them months ago in the rose gardens,” Bess replied with a twinkle. “They’ll probably steal what’s here anyway, but they can. I’ll risk no life or limb of any of our people in defense of things.”
There came a thunderous knocking on the door of the house as the two young women hurried down the staircase. Smythe, the majordomo, ran to answer the fierce summons, unbarring the door and drawing it open.
“Ye took yer own good time,” the Roundhead trooper said, pushing Smythe into the hall. Then, raising his musket, he smashed it savagely into the majordomo’s head.
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