Tapestry (15 page)

‘Oh, my dear, can you be ready?’ Mary asked.

‘I could leave right now if I were permitted,’ Jane replied.

‘Good. I shall have the carriage prepared for you to leave after dawn. You can be at Terregles by sundown,’ Charles assured her.

She glanced at Cecilia, who nodded encouragingly.

‘Thank you, all of you.’ She covered a yawn, realising again how wrung out she was. If only they had any idea of the journey she’d travelled already. ‘Good evening,’ she whispered with an embarrassed smile.

William Maxwell sat hunched in a tiny chamber pondering his fate. The English had split up the noble prisoners, although what they thought any of them could do while gaoled in the Tower of London was beyond him. The campaign to return the rightful Catholic heir was smashed beyond all hope.

William realised the Earl of Mar and the king in exile in whose name they had fought would likely suffer no further, whereas the brave border lords and the English Jacobites who had rallied would bear the brunt of the English Crown’s wrath. He tried to banish the thought but it surged through his defences, and he had to face the fact that he might have to give his life to appease King George.

He met one of the other lords while both were permitted a dawn stroll on the rooftop walk, which the senior yeoman guarding him assured him had been a favourite with the young Princess Elizabeth when she was imprisoned by her half-sister Mary. It didn’t impress William; he was Catholic, after all, and cared little for the footsteps of a famous Protestant queen.

‘If one’s life is to end now, then to die on a battlefield, weary, blood-spattered, yet burning with the fire of one’s convictions and yelling the name of the true king would be a good death,’
he said to his fellow lord. ‘But to languish in a cell, awaiting the humiliation of a trial that will be nothing more than farce, is soul-destroying.’

‘I suspect this is the easy part,’ his companion, Kenmure, lamented. ‘I overheard the guards saying that the King’s revenge will be to see us led to the mound at Tower Hamlets so the crowd can jeer and throw rotten fish and fruit, while we suffer in the most horrible way that a man can, and to such an undignified end … with our heads on spikes outside the Tower.’

William blanched inwardly, but his voice remained steady. ‘Do not speak of this to Derwentwater if you meet him. He remains cheerful that his release is near guaranteed.’

Lord Kenmure nodded. ‘I hope it shall be. By the way, did you hear the news that Old Borlum escaped?’

William actually gave a small gust of laughter. ‘Truly?’

His companion shrugged. ‘My gaoler likes to talk. Even Newgate couldn’t hold the old dog.’

‘The highlanders were our bravest warriors — had the most to lose too. I wish him well.’

Now, back in his cell, William stared out of the tiny window, cut from the otherwise impenetrable walls of the Lieutenant’s Lodgings where he was being kept, and felt the weight of dread at the cruel death that probably awaited him. In fairness, the Constable of the Tower had been gracious enough to provide each of the lords with what could only be described as half-decent lodgings, given that they were within the most feared prison in the land. William realised he could have been flung into one of the damp dungeon cells, to share it with the rats that swam in at high tide. And although he was in a locked chamber, it was dry, and had soft floorboards and access to fresh air — even a view, albeit only of Traitors’ Gate.

He stared at that view now, remembering how his gut had twisted as they’d been rowed down the Thames on a barge at dusk, halting at the huge wooden doors of this infamous water
gate. Hulking above it was the heavy masonry of its arch, which he estimated spanned more than fifty feet, possibly sixty. He’d heard as a youngster that the arch over the gate had collapsed twice previously and, like fellow schoolboys, had imagined it haunted by the wretched souls of those sent to their God once they passed beneath it. As he and his fellow prisoners had glided past, he had shuddered at the imposing bulk of the Tower, looking like a stone monster whose jaws opened slowly and ominously to swallow him just as they had another Catholic, Sir Thomas More, whom he had long revered. Nearly two centuries ago, this infamous councillor to King Henry VIII had made an identical, uncomfortable and unnerving journey down the river to pass beneath the gate. He had emerged from his cell, down in the freezing, dank depths of the Lieutenant’s Lodgings, only for his execution. William tried to ignore the stabs of dread that the same fate awaited him.

He and his fellows lords had been invited to dine with the Constable on the day of their arrival and had been told they would join him each evening for a meal for the duration of their stay. It was a courtesy befitting men of their rank.

Nevertheless, while ‘stay’ sounded innocent enough — as though they were honoured guests — in fact the Crown would be pushing to have their heads removed from their bodies as soon as it could. Poor Derwentwater. He was such a young man, and though he’d fought bravely enough, William had learned that the youngster had only joined their cause because of the haranguing of his wife, who had all but suggested she’d think him a coward if he didn’t. He was handsome, utterly charming and stunningly wealthy, but none of those attributes would help him to keep his head, William feared.

William’s thoughts moved to the youngsters in his own life: his two children. He remembered Willie’s earnest look when he came to his father one day with a runt from one of the dog litters. William had set his quill down and taken the linen that
held the pup and rubbed and rubbed until the angels had smiled and breathed life into the pup. His son had looked at him with such awe and adoration he would never forget it. Willie believed his father invincible. How could he let his boy down now?

And cherubic Anne, a delicate child with the sweetest temperament to melt any father’s heart … He dug into his breast pocket, where he kept her first attempt at embroidery. She’d insisted on forming his initials on a sampler and given it to him as a gift. He’d promised her he would carry it with him into battle and it would bring him luck. He kissed it now, beseeching it to do just that.

As his gaze absently followed a lantern’s light aboard a small craft plying the River Thames, once again his thoughts shifted to Winifred, and a fresh burst of anxiety assaulted him. He shivered, this time from the bone-aching chill of his room. Winifred’s health was often frail through winter and he felt the weight of guilt pressing on his conscience at the challenge he had set her. It would be hard enough for a highborn woman to traverse the country in agreeable weather, but in this fearsome cold he wondered if she would even survive the journey. His sister and brother-in-law could only offer invisible help; physically, Charles would be forced to distance himself from his ‘wayward’ Jacobite brother.

It was too late to regret his request. Already several days had passed. With God’s mercy, Winifred should have already received his letter, and knowing his wife as he did, he was sure she would not have wasted a moment in indecision. He smiled grimly, imagining her flinging down the letter, impetuously grabbing her cloak and leaping onto a horse to head south without a care for the consequences. In his mind she was fearless. William took strength from that, and knew he must remain as outwardly cheerful and confident as he could … for her sake.

W
ith Winifred’s faithful maid and companion Cecilia riding next to her, Jane had left Traquair House at the first glimpse of sunrise. Since then they’d fallen into silence and she’d had the luxury of her private thoughts, going back over her first morning in eighteenth century Scotland.

As she’d dressed, she’d felt embarrassed that anyone should have to assist her — she would have to stop thinking like a modern woman. Besides, she did need help from Cecilia to tie herself into her whalebone corset. She’d once again stared hard at the reflection in the mirror of a highborn woman, terrified for the life of her husband. She presumed he was interred in the Tower of London. Jane had toured the Tower several times during childhood, but more recently had actually been a guest there. One of her closest friends during her university days had been the daughter of a senior military officer who, upon retirement, was given the ceremonial office of Constable of the Tower, which meant Emily’s family called the Tower of London home. Jane had spent many a happy weekend roaming the Queen’s House, built by Henry VIII, which had housed Anne Boleyn and Elizabeth I among its famous prisoners. It had been exciting to have a private viewing of the Crown Jewels and walk around the spaces that were cordoned off from the thousands of tourists that tramped around the Tower every day. But Jane had
been acutely sensitive to its role since the eleventh century, as a gaol and place of oppression as much as a fortification and palace. If Emily’s dad had been the Constable in the Middle Ages, he would have been one of the nation’s most powerful men, a key defender of the capital and its sovereign.

Her favourite memory was the nightly Ceremony of the Keys. This ritual locking of the Tower of London by the Yeoman Guard had been occurring nightly since the Middle Ages, without exception — other than a single occasion during the London Blitz. With seven hundred years of tradition behind it, it was now accorded the pomp that her countrymen did better than any other nation on Earth. Emily’s mother was forever chivvying her husband to get dressed into his full ceremonial outfit for the occasion. Jane often stood behind Emily’s dad, trying not to giggle at the dancing plumage on his ceremonial hat, while he took the salute of the Chief Warder. The wide-eyed tourists would click their cameras as the watchman made his ritual way down Water Lane, to be halted by the sentry and given the challenge: ‘Who comes there?’ Then the monarch’s keys were handed over, the Tower was considered secure for that night and the haunting ‘Last Post’ was played.

She’d sit out on the rooftop of the Queen’s House and smoke with Emily. She’d listen to her whinge about a new boyfriend who only wanted sex and didn’t take her anywhere exciting, while she privately mused about moving in the footsteps of Elizabeth I.

How many times had she lounged in the window seat of the family’s drawing room, after an exam or exhausting week of study, sipping on a mug of tea that Emily’s mum had handed her, for which she’d sighed her thanks? She’d loved that spot the most, looking over the illuminated Tower Bridge and onto the Traitors’ Gate, which had welcomed many a doomed man.

As Winifred had stared back at her from the mirror, she’d realised that the Earl of Nithsdale had probably been rowed through that very gate and passed into the hands of the Yeoman
Guard. She had moved away, unable to hold Winifred’s fearful gaze any longer.

It had still felt like night when she heard the huge French clock on the landing join with a cockerel outside and begin to sound its deep chimes. She’d counted five. She had tiptoed across the thick silken rug to open the curtains and seen a tiny slash of pink at the far edge of the winter sky. Her breath had steamed against the windowpane and once again she’d caught herself scrawling
JG
with a fingertip against the chilled glass. Winifred’s body had shivered — no,
her
body had shivered in the cold, and she’d faced the new humiliation of having to use a chamber pot. She would never again take for granted the conveniences that she’d previously barely noticed.

Dressed, her hair neatly pinned, and a small cloth bag packed with one other gown, she’d stood before the mirror again and made a promise to the woman who looked back that she would
be
her. No more Jane. She would breathe, live, think as Winifred from now on. It was her only hope.

Now the carriage wheel bounced over a rut, her teeth smashed against each other and Winifred was rudely pulled from her thoughts.

‘Nearly there, dear,’ her companion said, squeezing her arm.

It was true. She recognised the surrounding countryside … surely just minutes to go now.

‘We have to be very careful, Cecilia. The government men might already have raided the house.’

Cecilia nodded, rapped on the ceiling.

‘Yes, My Lady,’ came the muffled reply of the driver, unaware it was the maid who was trying to win his attention.

Cecilia thrust her head through the window. ‘Can you see any men milling about, or horses gathered outside the house? Any carriages?’

There was a pause before the man answered: ‘All quiet, My Lady.’

‘Very good,’ Cecilia replied. ‘Drive on.’

They glanced at each other. Cecilia, to all intents and purposes, was her maid, but they’d been friends since childhood and now she was also her accomplice. How could Winifred ever repay this loyalty?

‘What’s your plan?’ Cecilia asked.

Winifred shook her head. ‘I have none to speak of. Charles and Mary have insisted I close up the house to save on expenses, and my dear brother-in-law has kindly lent me as much as he dare so I can employ a lawyer to plead my lord’s case. Mary has promised to collect Anne from our friend Bess and she will keep her safe in my absence.’

‘Then you have no need to fret on this last matter.’

‘No, other than my fear of making darling Anne an orphan.’

‘Hush, now! We shan’t speak of such nonsense,’ Cecilia admonished.

Winifred nodded, turning her mind to more mundane matters. ‘I shall keep on our grieve, for our farm still needs managing … and the byre-woman must keep tending our cows. Mayhap I shall instruct the gardener’s wife to light fires now and then so the house suffers no damp during this fierce winter.’

‘Who will oversee the finances of the estate?’

‘To be truthful, Cecilia, I am more worried about William than his estate right now … ’Tis too late to send money to Barnet as he requested. I just hope I have sufficient for London.’

‘Terregles, My Lady!’ the man yelled from above as they passed through the grand wrought-iron gates of her former home.

The two women nodded at each other, as if willing themselves to remain composed and strong. The wind howled at their bonnets and tore at their skirts as the groom helped them from the carriage and the head maid and housekeeper rushed from the huge front door, shocked to see the pair.

‘Oh, My Lady, welcome home. We are heartsick with worry for you and my Lord Nithsdale,’ the housekeeper said,
gathering up the two women like a clucking mother hen and ushering them into the glow of the hallway to gain respite from the chill wind.

Winifred caught her breath. ‘Sarah, it’s a fleeting visit, I fear. I must travel tomorrow to London.’ Sarah looked shocked, but held her tongue. ‘I must needs reach my husband.’

‘Of course, My Lady. Let me get you out of these cloaks and I’ll have some tea brought into the drawing room. And a tray of food — just cold ham, but you look too tired to wait for much more. Shall I light the fire?’

‘I say we do not stand on ceremony and go to the parlour instead, Sarah. It is always warm there. Besides,’ she added, to lighten the dread surrounding the trio, ‘I need to see Bran and Gordy and they always have muddy boots.’

The housekeeper smiled. ‘Gordy’s been in the high fields today, My Lady. He is staying at the hut tonight because the weather is too fearsome.’ Winifred nodded, having guessed that such might be the case. ‘But I can find Bran easily enough. Come, let me put a pot of water on for you. You should both warm your fingers by the hearth.’

Sarah let them sit in comparative silence while she gave her mistress a report on the household. Winifred learned that old Lady Nithsdale was so fragile now that she needed a lot of physical help, and with the house being run by so few staff, she had gone to stay with relatives. Most of the servants had now been laid off and Sarah had wisely taken it upon herself to shut up many of the rooms. Though head of the household staff, she was tackling the menial jobs now, and Jane couldn’t help but admire her as she ladled food that she had cooked herself into earthen bowls.

They tried not to feel forlorn, but Winifred was sure they looked it as they swallowed Sarah’s cock-a-leekie soup, sweetened and thickened with prunes. She chewed on a heel of bread, thinking hard on what was ahead of her.

‘Does Gordy think it may snow again tomorrow?’ she suddenly muttered to Sarah, who was busy making an oatmeal posset even though Winifred had said she wouldn’t need it.

‘Aye, he does. They say it’s three feet thick in places already.’

She glanced at Cecilia. ‘I cannot take Charles’s carriage south. It is too dangerous.’

‘Surely you do not mean to go on horseback!’ Cecilia exclaimed, her hunger momentarily forgotten as she dropped the spoon into her bowl.

Winifred shrugged. ‘We must be brave. I cannot risk not getting through. If it means riding bareback, Cecilia, you know I will. We will ride to Newcastle mayhap, and take a coach from there to London.’

Sarah put a mug down beside her. ‘There now, My Lady. Get that into ye. It’s got a shot of whiskey in it that should give you a good night’s sleep. You too, Miss Cecilia. Here’s yours.’ She placed another mug down. ‘’Tis a fearsome journey ahead tom—’ A door slammed. ‘Ah, that’ll be Bran.’

An old man in a muddy kilt brought a swirl of icy air with him as he entered the parlour, banging his boots free of snow. He stood in a small pool of water, pulled his cap from his tatty grey hair and bowed. ‘My Lady, I am sore sorry for the news.’

‘Hello, Bran,’ Winifred said in a tired voice. ‘Thank you for coming so quickly.’

‘I be here to help however I can, My Lady,’ he said, bowing his head before nodding silent thanks to Sarah, who had pushed a warmed mug of laced milk into his icy fingers.

Winifred sipped the posset out of politeness and felt the liquor hit the back of her throat, its fumes rising off the hot milk, stinging her eyes. She had to admit that she felt more alive for it, and took another slug before putting the mug down. ‘Bran, I need your help to bury the family papers. I can’t let them fall into the hands of the Crown. If nothing else, they will protect our son.’

‘Aye. I might have just the right spot, My Lady. Whenever you are ready.’

She smiled. ‘Finish your mug, Bran.’

Soon the pair of them were trudging down the grassed terrace at the back of the house. The ground was now iced with a foot of snow, which crunched beneath Winifred’s footsteps as she tried to lift her skirts with her free hand. With her other she clutched tight the family’s documents, including the deeds to the house and the paperwork attesting to the transfer of estates to their son. She’d be damned if she was going to let King George confiscate Willie’s birthright. She had also stuffed in some jewellery and coin as a precaution.

Bran carried a lamp and a shovel, offering her a helping arm when she stumbled. She trusted this old man and Sarah with the family’s lives, for both had been with the Maxwells since William was a youngster, and both were fiercely Jacobite.

‘Here,’ she said suddenly. ‘That was seventy-four steps I counted.’ When Bran looked wryly at her, she even found a small grin. ‘One for every year of the Earl’s and my ages.’

‘I won’t ask how many of them belong to you, My Lady. You look as young as the day Lord William brought you home.’

She felt her eyes water, pretended it was the cold and hoped the lamp hadn’t highlighted it. She pointed to the spot to distract Bran’s gaze. ‘Right here, then. Can you cut through the turf, Bran? I fear it might feel like stone in this weather.’

‘I shall try,’ he assured her, and with Winifred’s urgings he bent his back to his labours. A while later, when even the cold wind had been forgotten, they stood before a small but deep enough hole dug into the near-frozen earth. Bran had cut the turf neatly into three squares and set them aside so they could be replaced later. ‘Will that do it?’ he asked, wiping his leaking nose on his sleeve.

‘It will serve us fine, Bran.’ Winifred gratefully lowered herself to her knees, uncaring of the mud or snow, and placed
the precious documents, wrapped up with waxed linen stored in a box, into the earth vault they had created. ‘Now cover it up.’

He did so. The hiding of the documents went faster than the digging and within minutes the hole had been filled.

‘Now replace the turf in precisely the same divots as they came out and no one will be any the wiser, save us,’ she instructed.

She carefully handed him the three squares of turf, which he reverently returned to their original spots before he banged down on them with his boots.

Winifred smiled. ‘Perfect, Bran. They are to be dug up only on my instructions and their whereabouts must not be shared with
anyone
. I trust you in this.’

‘You can rest easy in that trust, My Lady. I will not forsake ye.’

She squeezed his bony shoulder. ‘Seventy-four steps north, in a straight line, from the great urn.’

He touched his cap. ‘It is already forgotten, My Lady.’

Winifred smiled grimly in the dark. ‘May it protect our family and yours, Bran.’

Jane was dreaming, and this time, deep in her subconscious, she knew it. But was it a dream … or was it a glimpse into the reality she craved?

Sarah had done her best to make her mistress comfortable, given that she’d arrived unannounced. Her old bedchamber had been considered too large to heat and hadn’t been aired, so it was not only freezing but also smelled musty.

Instead, Winifred had chosen Anne’s tiny nursery room. After a thorough prodding of the fire to coax the flames into a merry dance the two women had finally left her alone. Cecilia had covered Winifred’s hand with her own. ‘I shall wake you at dawn, I promise.’