Rebels and Traitors (116 page)

From the high-backed, throne-like, Jacobean oak chair that had been her father’s, Orlando Lovell gazed at his wife. She could see blood seeping through his shirt now, as he tried to ease his shoulder. ‘I am wounded … Oh sweetheart, I am tired as well. Tired of constantly fighting … weary of squabbling with you.’ He was lying. ‘What would I give to have this domestic retreat? — Let us be sensible, Juliana. Protector Cromwell is elderly; he cannot last, even if he escapes murder. What will happen once he dies? He has no successor. There will be chaos. Then the King will be restored, to great rejoicing. All the King’s supporters will return — I among them.’ He leaned forwards. Juliana, still standing, went rigid. ‘I want you back, dear heart. I want us to have the full and rich life that we have earned; I want that with you, the woman I chose, the woman who is bound to me before God and the law’

‘I will not come.’

‘Must I beg you, my love?’

‘I believe in divorce,’ stated Juliana, without apology, regret or pity.

She had lived with a man of liberal ideals for so long, she was amazed at just how angry her declaration made Orlando Lovell. That devotee of traditional conservatism was in too much physical pain to berate her. He could only express his breath furiously to show his disgust.

For a while Lovell closed his eyes, blotting her out, as he tried to deal with the pain in his shoulder. Juliana sat herself on a long form on one side of her dining table. Her left hand stroked the soft leather cloth that covered it in the daytime, where some people would use a turkey carpet to protect the wood from knocks. As Lovell fell silent, she considered what he had said about the political future.

Even in the dying days of the Protectorate, Juliana saw this as no moment to abandon Gideon Jukes. To return to Orlando Lovell simply because he would be among the victorious party held no appeal. She had invested her hopes too deeply elsewhere. She knew that in his heart, Gideon was preparing himself to lose all he had fought for. Her task, which she would enter into willingly and cheerfully, would be to support him as he tried to reconcile himself to whatever happened next.

A window was open, to air the room that sunny day. From somewhere below, came the cry of a very young child, calling for attention.

Juliana reacted, but stopped. Lovell saw it. He swung out of the chair and in three strides was at the window. With one hand gripping the sill, he stared down below into the small enclosed yard at the back of the property. On a rug in the sun he saw the baby playing: Celia Jukes, now nine months old, in a white dress to which were sewn long leading-reins, one of which she was devotedly chewing. She had become a beautiful baby, fair-haired, blue-eyed, bright-natured, the delight of both her parents.

Lovell realised at once whose child it was.

Juliana said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Resting in the chair had revived Lovell. He had enough energy to move. The enclosed yard reminded him that he had brought himself into a rat-trap, a cul-de-sac with no back exit. If anyone came in at the shop door, he had no escape.

He snapped into a plan. ‘I shall leave your house. Do not look relieved too soon! I see you have that horse there.’

‘Rumour? He was hidden when serviceable mounts were being seized to prevent rebel cavaliers taking them.’

Lovell laughed. ‘Delicious! Well, a rebel cavalier is having him now! How is he brought out of your yard?’

‘He has to be led through the shop —’

‘You jest?’

‘Unfortunately not.’

‘Here is what will happen. You will saddle up your nag; I shall ride him. You will be up behind me —’

‘I will not.’

‘Oh, you will, my dear. Now —’ On the table Lovell had found paper that Valentine been using earlier. He did not notice the significance of the boy’s used juice beaker and the delft jug full of cooled friar’s balsam. He still had no idea Valentine was upstairs. ‘Write instructions. Tell Jukes, I will do a fair exchange — his golden child for my Tom.’

Juliana went cold. You are taking my baby?’

You too. Jukes must bring Thomas to the Blue Boar in King Street at ten o’clock sharp tonight. He will be alone, unarmed, and give me no trouble. When he produces Tom, I shall return you and the pretty one. Write it.’

‘No.’

Without thinking twice, Orlando Lovell put his boot on the back of a dining chair and kicked it over. As Juliana covered her mouth with her hand in horror, he pushed another sideways viciously, breaking a third. Destruction, noise and terror had arrived.
Write!’

Chairs are just things, thought Juliana weakly. Chairs can be mended, or replaced …

While she stood rooted to the spot, Lovell, despite his wound, lifted a stool one-handed and hurled it. It smashed against a wall, scarring the delicate painted plaster.

‘Stop it! Be quiet and I will do it —’

Lovell behaved as cavaliers did. Pointlessly he ripped the leather cloth from the table; everything on it cascaded to the floor. To pacify him, Juliana salvaged paper, quill and ink. Lovell kicked at the empty coal scuttle. Juliana began writing. Despite her submission, Lovell continued to destroy her home. Fired up by his personal enmity for Gideon, he wrenched the curtains from their pole, pulling the pole from the wall with them, then dragged the long strips of carpet off the hanging shelves, bringing down their contents. Plates and beakers crashed and shattered.

The result was inevitable. The commotion brought Catherine Keevil running down to investigate.

Lovell stilled. ‘Oh she is a delight!’ he announced, eyeing up Catherine with a leer. If you will not have me, madam, maybe your pretty maid will!’

‘Leave her alone.’ Juliana was still hastily writing.

She did not see Catherine’s eyes dart to the stairs, as the girl decided to bolt for help. Then Catherine hesitated fatally. Lovell grabbed her. Juliana cried out a warning but Catherine’s wild struggles became unmanageable. Lovell reacted professionally. He pulled out the carbine, cocked it, placed it to the young girl’s forehead and shot her.

Frozen with horror, Juliana watched the slow slide floorwards of the lifeless Catherine Keevil. Blood and human tissue had spread on the door-frame and adjacent wall. The dead girl had joined all those other household servants who lost their lives accidentally and unfairly in the civil wars … Lovell dropped the corpse quite casually. ‘Any other concealed helpers?’

Frantic and mute, Juliana shook her head. Lovell strode to the table, cast a glance at the written note, then grasped his trembling wife by the arm. As he pulled her with him, she had to step over Catherine, trying not to see what the bullet had done.

Lovell hauled Juliana down the steep stairs. Her skirts tangled in a dog-gate; Lovell impatiently dragged her free. He pushed her ahead, intending her to stumble and weep and plead with him, tyrannising her so she would obey him. In the sun-drenched yard, he shed Juliana roughly as he strode to the baby. He picked up the child, by her leading-reins; he swung her like a boy’s top on a piece of rope. Many cavaliers had played ghastly games like this. If Celia’s dress and the strings had been less robust, she would have fallen. Juliana screamed and reached out. Lovell grinned as he whirled the frightened child away from her. Terrified, Celia began to wail loudly.

Lovell slung the baby under one arm. He had to use his other forearm to shield himself from Juliana’s pummelling fists. To defend himself from her furious rain of blows, Lovell swung his arm hard and felled her to the ground.

As she lay winded, she was vaguely aware of hammering at the shop door; farther away dogs were yelping hysterically. Lovell lowered the wailing baby back onto the rug. He was almost exhausted. Restively he unbuttoned his coat further, in order to rub at his bandaged shoulder. His savagery seemed to subside. With an expression of apology, he turned back towards Juliana, holding out a hand. She thought he intended to pull her to her feet, perhaps as a courtesy, perhaps so she could support him if he fainted.

Too late. There was a flash of white. A small figure, nightshirted and barefoot, burst upon them.

Juliana gasped. He had blood on his feet; he had run through Catherine’s blood. Shock after what he had seen upstairs gave him impetus even before Orlando struck Juliana. The boy had witnessed that.

He was clutching a sword, the one the smith Lucas once rejected, that old weapon they had had for years. Recently, Gideon had sharpened it. The sword was heavy for a lad of twelve, even when held tightly in both hands. Barely able to manage, he kept the point up bravely, as he rushed forwards. He aimed where soldiers said you should, up and under the fifth rib; he guessed, but by chance he guessed correctly. Using all his strength, he ran the man through.

Gideon Jukes arrived moments later. He watched Lovell collapse. He saw Juliana, her head flung back, staring at the sky in despair; the way she was clutching the baby told him much. He saw the stricken boy, deep in shock. The sword had broken; its hilt and half the blade lay at his feet. Gideon’s heart filled up with pity, though it was obvious no amount of compassion would help. The child had withdrawn into a horror that must last him all his life.

Like so many thousands of others, they were neither a cavalier nor a Roundhead family, neither wholly Royalist nor Parliamentarian. What had happened to them went beyond all matters of government. As Gideon started to grasp the events in his house today, he realised heavily how the civil war had claimed its newest victims. One more son and his brother had to live with the unthinkable. Another mother faced the endless effects of tragedy. Guilt, blame, recrimination, loneliness, misery and change lay ahead of them. They could move home, start again, seem to recover, but from this day they were all permanently damaged.

He knelt by the prone man, grasped him to provide human contact through his final moments, but his soul had ebbed out already. Nothing could be done. Not knowing who the stranger was, Valentine Lovell had just killed his father.