Royalist Rebel

Royalist Rebel

Anita Seymour

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by CLAYMORE PRESS An imprint of Pen & Sword Books Ltd 47 Church Street Barnsley South Yorkshire S70 2AS Copyright Š Anita Seymour, 2013 9781781590683 The right of Anita Seymour to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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Frontispiece '...love her intirely but let her not know it, for all wifes are but too apt to take advantage of the fondness of theire husband, and upon it to growe insolent and imperious, and inclined to pevert the laws of nature by indeavouringe a superiority over the husband, and if shee getts the reignes in her own hands, away shee will runn with it, you scarce ever will stopp her in the whole course of her life.'

Sir Lionel Tollemache in a letter to his son, Lionel She was a woman of great beauty, but of far greater parts. She had a wonderful quickness of apprehension, and an amazing vivacity in conversation. She had studied not only divinity and history, but mathematics and philosophy. She was violent in every thing she set about, a violent friend, but a much more violent enemy. She had a restless ambition, lived at a vast expense, and was ravenously covetous; and would have stuck at nothing by which she might compass her ends.

Elizabeth, Countess Dysart according to Bishop Burnet's History

Chapter 1 July 1643, Richmond, Surrey, England Though the hour is early, my riding habit sticks to my back and moisture gathers on my upper lip. The air is thick with the scent of wildflowers, parched grass and sharp tang of silt. My mare high steps along the barge walk, where clouds of midges gather in the trees beside the river Thames that curls through lush fields in a silver ribbon toward Richmond town.

Two footmen ride escort, one ahead to clear the way of walkers, whilst the other steers his mount close to Nan’s horse. The animal needs a firmer hand than my sister’s, but he is a favourite of hers and at times, determination overrules her sense.

'Which goddess shall I be when Mistress Carlisle paints my portrait, Nan?’ I ask.

‘Why can you not simply be yourself, Elizabeth?’ She grips the rein with a tight fist and the pommel of her saddle with the other.

‘You have beauty enough without the enhancements of immortality.’

‘It is for that precise reason, I fancy I would look well attired in the robes of the goddess Iris, do you not think?’

‘You have never possessed much modesty,’ Nan murmurs, though not low enough that I do not hear. ‘I know nothing of this Iris. Who was she?’ Her feigned disinterest does not deceive me and I cannot help but goad her.

‘Because I study Ovid’s Metamorphoses, while you still wrestle with elementary French.'

‘Perhaps I too would enjoy Ovid,’ Nan whines. ‘How can I know if I have not tried?’

‘And you shall not, until you have learned Latin, which I have not the inclination to teach you. As for Iris, she wore a halo of light on her head and trailed a rainbow across the sky.’

A pigeon bursts from a hedgerow causing Nan to shriek in alarm. Her horse half rears at the panicked snap, snap, snap of the bird’s wings as it lunges into a tree above our heads.

A footman springs forward, grasps the bridle of her horse and murmurs an endearment that settles the animal. By some miracle, Nan is not unseated and the servant drops back again.

‘I would like to dress for the portrait too.’ Nan carefully nudges her mount close to mine. Her darting eyes probe the willows on the far bank, where swaying fronds dip lazily into the river. ‘I know nothing of goddesses. Which one shall I be?’

I pretend to ponder for a moment, but have given the matter some thought. ‘What about the enchantress Circe, who was also a witch, and turned those who offended her into creatures. Like pigs.’

I raise a clawed hand and bare my teeth in a grimace.

Nan glares at me and falls back, her shoulders hunched in dejection.

Laughing, I guide my mare over a rut of dried mud on the path.

‘Don’t take my teasing to heart so,’ I call to her over my shoulder, though her abject misery stirs my wicked tongue. ‘Iris had sisters too, but they were the winged monsters known as harpies.’

‘Elizabeth!’ Nan’s head jerks up. ‘When we return home I shall tell Katherine and Margaret what you said. You can be so cruel at times.’

‘Make way there!’ The footman closest to me orders a figure approaching from the opposite direction. A man in a patched coat faded across the shoulders leads two laden donkeys, heads down and hindquarters swinging beneath their heavy loads.

The journeyman snatches off his hat and bows clumsily. His beasts bray in protest and strain against the ropes as he attempts to haul them onto the grass verge.

Inhaling with a sigh, I reign in my mount and resign myself to wait as the ragged procession moves past. My mare nips at the man’s sleeve as he draws level. I throw back my head in a laugh at her naughty manners, then again at the journeyman’s low curse.

My footman snarls at him for disrespect, but I signal him to desist. The journeyman’s full knapsack reminds me today is Saturday; market day in Kingston. His animals already look tired and I don’t envy the long day he faces beneath the summer sun at the market.

We set off again, but have gone less than a dozen paces, when a

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tremor runs through the ground. A scurrying of wings or feet erupts from the bushes and a flock of startled crows scatter from the branches above us. A rhythmic pounding of hooves and jingle of bridles sets my horse snorting in alarm, her head thrown up and ears flat.

A line of horses appears round the bend and canters toward us, the riders in sleeveless buff jerkins with baldricks slung over their shoulders, and short swords at their waists. The officer at the head of the column wears the round, blackened helmet that strikes terror into every Royalist heart.

‘Rebels,’ I growl in contempt, though at the same time a trickle of fear creeps into my belly.

Nan reins her mount in behind me. ‘They’re Onslow’s men!’ Her gaze darts in all directions as if in search of escape. ‘I told you we wouldn’t be able to avoid them on the towpath. Even you, Elizabeth cannot bluff and bluster with those men to get your way.’

Her restless hands jerk her reins; her alarm transfers to her horse and the animal crabs sideways, tossing his head.

Timid she may be, but my sister is no fool.

‘Be still,’ I hiss, forcing calm into my voice. ‘They’ll not harm us.’

Though my throat dries and my heart thuds uncomfortably beneath my doublet.

The second footman jostles to my side, his chin jutted forward and a hand on the pistol at his belt.

I shake my head at him and with ill-concealed reluctance he relaxes in the saddle, his hand slides from the weapon and he flaps his coat forward to conceal it again.

‘Halt!’ The Roundhead officer’s raised gauntlet signals his untidy cavalry to draw rein. Harnesses jingle as the horses shuffle to a stop, whickering and champing at roughly pulled bits. A powerful stench of unwashed bodies, horse sweat and dung drift toward me on the breeze.

‘What do we do?’ Nan presses a gloved hand to her mouth.

I throw her a warning glare. ‘You’ll do nothing. I'll handle this.’

The officer dismounts with indolent slowness, pausing to examine a cluster of persistent dog roses that have survived the recent drought. I imagine he does so to demonstrate his authority

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over us. What heady power it must be for such a man to keep the Murrays waiting.

Broad and ungainly, he is not young; probably near two score in years. He peels a glove from one fleshy hand, and slaps it against his other palm. The nose guard of a lobster-tail helmet hides most of his face, but I recognise him. His father rose to be a justice of the peace, but his grandsire was a butcher.

His troop of soldiers spread across the grass. They look ill-prepared for conflict, and though several wear helmets, most are in soft, madder red Montero hats.

A patrol then, most likely a trained band sent from the stews of London to intimidate the fine folk of Kingston.

‘Captain Fitton.’ I use his rank with grudging respect.

He tucks a glove into his waistband, then plants himself beside my mount, his feet splayed.

‘Mistress Murray.’ His voice drips with contempt and he regards me with a lascivious leer, one bare hand pressed flat against my horse’s muzzle.

Pity I did not choose to ride Saracen this morning. That beast would shear the man’s fingers at the second knuckle for such presumption.

‘Where are you bound, Mistress, looking so fine on this bright morning?’ He cocks his chin at my footmen. ‘And with two such well-armed men at your side.’ His gaze roves upward in a slow, insolent inspection to linger on my bodice.

‘Indeed, sir.’ My hand drifts to my throat, recalling belatedly that my doublet is fastened to my neck and give brief thanks to the fashion of wearing male clothing on horseback. ‘My business is private, and my men are no better armed than yours. With so many ruffians on the road in these troubled times, I have need of them.’

At the word ‘ruffians’, the captain’s eyes narrow and he steps closer, his hand slides along my horse’s gleaming neck and hovers close to my boot.

Once, I would have taken my whip to that hand. Instead, I console myself with a conjured image of my arm striking his helmet above his ear and sending it tumbling end over end into the river.

The vision makes me smile, a gesture the captain responds to as if it

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were aimed at him.

‘As to my destination,’ I continue with deliberate slowness.

‘That is not your concern.’

My horse grows restless. Her hooves paw the path and send the captain back a pace, a flash of apprehension in his eyes. I could calm her with a hand, but do not; instead I relish his unease.

‘Hah!’ He gives a derisive snort and paces an invisible line on the path. ‘It won’t be long before everyone’s business in this realm is ours. Charles Stuart cannot ignore our demands forever.’

‘I would think, sir,’ I lick my lips and fight to keep my anger from showing, ‘your commanding officer must be well aware of how the townsfolk view Parliamentarians. ‘They give him enough trouble.’

The previous November, Sir Richard Onslow, the deputy lieutenant of Surrey, took control of the Kingston Magazine for Parliament, bringing the Southwark trained bands with him.

Ostensibly this was to defend the town, but in truth caused a riot when he forcibly removed the king’s favourite, Lord Digby. A mob crowded the market square to jeer at the interlopers, calling them ‘Roundheads’ and demanded they withdraw.

The locals don’t easily accept a hostile garrison in their midst, and their continued occupation of Kingston remains an uncomfortable one.

Fitton swings round to face me, but I do not flinch. Neither my heritage, nor my pride will bear insult from someone who, a twelvemonth ago, would not have dared halt a Murray on the road, let alone demand their business.

His smile dissolves, mouth twitching with surly discomfort. For all his swagger and disdain, this cur of a man is more used to receiving orders than giving them.

‘The Stuart has not your confidence, Mistress.’ His uneasy grin reveals brown-tinged teeth. ‘What with him scurrying to Oxford with his court of stragglers, he looks to be on the run. But then you’d know that, since your father is his whipping-boy.’

A snigger rises from the troop behind him, and my hand tightens on my whip. Designed for decoration, it is too short and light to cause damage. Yet for the second time in as many minutes,

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I fight an urge to lash it across this whoreson’s smug face.

Truth indeed rankles, for as a boy, my father, William Murray, accepted punishment for the transgressions of the young Prince Charles; but that is long ago history, and only spoken of amongst his enemies.

‘My father,’ I say through clenched teeth, ‘is the king’s envoy, and a Gentleman of the Bedchamber. You would do well not to underestimate the influence our family has.’

A gust of wind lifts the feather on my hat, cooling the heat of fury in my cheeks. I ease the cloth at my throat with one hand, uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny.

Fitton’s skin darkens at his neck, the colour slowly spreading into his face accentuating pale marks left by the pox he must have contracted in childhood. He could be a handsome man but for those blemishes. And the double chin.

Our eyes meet and hold, but he is the first to drop his gaze.

How easy it is to cow men of low birth. Five yards of velvet and a few pearls have them quivering in their shoes. The rebel leader, John Pym, may imbue his followers with a sense of holy righteousness, but the mien of superior birth is strong. At heart, men like this upstart soldier know their place.

‘I mean no disrespect, Mistress.’ Fitton’s voice turns obsequious, though his blank eyes betray a lack of sincerity. He replaces his glove, and tugs the front of his leather jerkin; his bravado replaced by calm duty. ‘I am charged to demand where you are bound.’

‘As I said, sir, my errand is no business of yours.’

Nan’s hand creeps across the space between us and closes on my forearm. ‘I beg you not to make a fuss, Elizabeth. Mistress Carlisle can paint our portraits another day.’

‘Hush, Nan. No one in Surrey would dare lay a hand on us.’

Nan releases a whimper, and unwilling to reduce her to an attack of nerves, I paste on an ingratiating smile. ‘Since you are determined to know our purpose, Captain. My sister and I are expected at Petersham Lodge.’

A cunning light enters his eyes. ‘So, it is the Keeper of Richmond Park you speak of. Him and that unnatural wife of his?’ He strokes his chin in thought, though I doubt contemplation is an activity

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familiar to this man.

‘He’s a poet and court dramatist,’ I snap. ‘His Majesty is his patron.’ I do not add that Joan Carlisle is an excellent artist, but to this canting fool, any woman who can do more than wash, cook and suckle children is unnatural.

‘Another cursed Royalist,’ an ensign snorts, loud enough for me to hear.

The captain doesn’t even glance at the man, much less reprimand him.

An insult I will not forget.

‘I have my orders,’ Fitton barks, his mouth curled into a sneer.

‘To keep watch on Royalist movements in the locality.’

My fists clench on the reins. ‘And why pray? Surely my sister and I are no threat?’ But of course, I know very well why he does so. We Murrays are Royalists; ‘delinquents’ and ‘malignants’ and therefore enemies of Parliament.

The footman with the ready pistol eases closer, his glance flicking to the captain and then back at me. ‘Shall I insist he lets you pass, Mistress?’

The man is new to our household, and impetuous. I am tempted to allow him to show his courage, but Mother would not thank me.

Besides, a footman in Kingston gaol is useless to us.

At any other time I would challenge Fitton, and enjoy the scrap.

However the sight of Nan’s pinched face makes me relent. And yet, something has given Fitton his courage, though it only dawns on me at that moment to wonder what that could be.

‘Very well, Captain. On this occasion, we will return home.’ I nudge my horse in a tight circle. ‘Yet be assured my father shall hear of your unwelcome interference.’

His gaze meets mine again and in an instant of mutual communication, we both know there is no substance to my threat.

My father attends the king at Oxford, with no plans to return to Ham in the near future. Something the captain, and indeed the entire Kingston garrison, must know.

‘Heed your sister, Mistress Murray.’ He signals for his horse, his lips twisted into a parody of a smile. Leather creaks as he heaves his ample rump into the saddle. ‘Your lady mother has need of you

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at home.’

A cold hand grips my heart. We left the house not a half hour ago. What has happened in so short a time? And how would this man know of it? Their patrol approached from the Richmond road.

They could not have passed by Ham House.

‘Oblige me by explaining yourself, Captain.’ My tone is soft but firm. ‘What do you know of my mother?’

He turns his mount, presenting the horse’s hindquarters in a gesture of blatant insolence. I fear he is not going to respond, but cannot bring myself to plead with him. He would like nothing better than to see me beg.

Fitton regards me over one buff-clad shoulder with a sly, mocking grin, his eyes devoid of interest, as if our encounter now bores him. ‘A representative from the Committee of Sequestration calls on Mistress Catherine Murray this day.’ He signals to his men to mount and line up in readiness to leave. ‘She may need a daughter’s comfort on hearing his business.’

Hooves dislodge gobbets of dry earth and the horses’ rumps sway as the line of rebels gather speed to cross Petersham Meadows toward the main road to Kingston and the garrison.

I clench my bottom lip between my teeth, and stare after them, my hands trembling on the reins. I have to fight an inclination to shout that they cross Murray land, but I would surely be mocked, or worse, ignored.

‘Elizabeth, what did he mean?’ Nan gropes for my sleeve.

‘I do not know,’ I snap, shrugging her off. Immediately guilt softens my tone. ‘Don't fret, Nan, it could be nothing, but we must return home.'

After our desultory outward ride, the footmen forge ahead with enthusiasm, while my restless mare needs no second command to stretch her neck and gallop back the way we came.

Nan’s cry of dismay is swallowed by the sound of pounding hooves. With my shoulders hunched over the pommels of my saddle, I urge my horse on while the footmen at my side shout warnings to pedestrians on the towpath, who leap aside to let us pass.

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