The Rebel’s Daughter (11 page)

Her appetite gone, Helena scampered up to
her room where she jammed her meagre belongings into her bag and
clattered down again, hoping she wouldn’t meet the landlord on her
way out. Thankfully, she reached the road outside unseen, where she
shuffled her feet in impatience, willing Bayle to
appear.

When the cart rounded the corner and came
to a halt beside her, she exhaled in a relieved sigh and clambered
into her seat.

“
Do you
think the landlord suspected why we are here?” she asked once they
were out on the road again.

“
It cost
me more than the price of our breakfast to ensure he did not.”
Bayle cocked his head at the receding inn. “He’s making a tidy
profit keeping his guests” business private.”

“
What do
you mean?”

“
Our
host is duty bound to report the names of all strangers and
suspicious persons staying at
The Dove
to the militia. He would only refrain from this if
sufficiently recompensed beforehand.”

Helena
’s jaw slackened in shock.

Grinning, he gave a dismissive shrug. “He
might be a rogue, but his lax morals served us well. There are
those who suffer and die in times like these, and those like our
landlord who use them to line their pockets. “Tis the way of the
world.”

Helena was about to voice her outrage at
injustice in all its forms, when he waved her off. “Keep a look out
for troopers. There’ll be patrols on all the roads
soon.”

Outside Middlezoy, Bayle’s warning proved
accurate. Troopers hammered on doors and pounded through houses,
thrusting aside anyone brave enough to disobey.

For no greater sin than not responding fast
enough to a shouted command, men and boys alike were forced to
endure cuffs and insults. Those who dared answer back received
hefty whacks across shoulders with the flats of swords.

A soldier insulted a local girl with rough
handling, ripping her clothes. A man, Helena presumed to be the
girl’s father, rushed forward to defend her and received a lash of
the soldier’s whip across his face. The man fell to the ground,
bleeding, and his persecutor delivered a vicious kick to his
face.

Helena stood up in the cart about to
protest, when Bayle’s hand clamped onto her arm, hauling her down
again. “Don’t react,” he whispered, flicking the reins to urge the
horses on past.

“
What’s
happening, Bayle?” Helena’s voice dropped to a sob. “These people
aren’t rebels, they’re villagers. They offer no threat.”

“
They
hate us, they hate us all, Helena,” he said. “In their eyes, the
West Country must pay for its betrayal. Few armies are merciful in
victory. It is often too hard won. They’re savage because they can
be. There’s no fairness to it.”

Helena had never measured her courage
before, ashamed at the cowardice that burned in her. She may not
condone those soldier’s actions, but she didn’t accept them,
either.

She had left Loxsbeare full of arrogance,
determined to find her father and brother at all costs. Now she was
laying herself open to possible arrest, perhaps even a beating, or
worse. Bayle would be helpless if they turned their attentions to
her. Enlightenment had come too late. Turning back was almost as
dangerous as pressing on.

* * *

The horses plodded through
rutted roads rapidly drying out from
the recent heavy rains, into flat, open
countryside.

“
Where
are we?” Helena asked, impatient, though they had only gone a
couple of miles.

“
Up the
road there is Weston Zoyland, where my aunt and uncle live.” Bayle
indicated a clump of trees about a mile ahead, beyond which stood a
cluster of rooftops on a rise.

“
What
are they like?” Surprised, Helena studied his profile. It had never
occurred to her Bayle had a family.

“
That’s
a strange question.”

“
Yes, I
suppose it is.” She smiled. “Would they be able to tell us
anything?”

“
I know
no more than you do.” He sounded weary. “But it’s somewhere to
begin, and the best lie to tell is one wrapped in
truth.”

Confused by this gem she did not understand,
Helena fell silent as they entered the well-kept village, its
substantial stone houses clustered round a church with a square
spire and a pleasant green.

“
St
Mary’s,” Bayle cocked his chin at the church. Before Helena could
turn her head to look, he hauled the hood of her cloak over her
head, pulling her into his side and held her there, her protest
muffled in the stifling fabric.

The horses snorted and struggled between the
traces, their swaying rears all she could see through the tiny gap
left round her eyes.

“
Get on
there, go.” Bayle cracked the reins, shouting. The horses whickered
and sprang forward.

After a short but jolting sprint, he released
her.

Helena emerged spluttering. “Why did you
do that?” she demanded. “I almost suffocated under there. And what
is that dreadful smell?” She twisted round to look behind
her.

“
Don’t
look,” Bayle snapped. Too late.

At first sight, she thought four men sat in a
tree, then reality became clear. Metal chains were looped about
their necks and torsos, their hands tied behind their backs; faces
frozen in grotesque parodies of human expression, which showed
their deaths had been neither quick nor easy.

Helena
choked back a scream, clamping her
eyes tight shut to block out the terrible sight, but the image was
seared behind her eyelids. “Is it? Are they…”

“
No,”
Bayle’s low whisper reassured her. “It isn’t them.”

Hot tears of relief trickled down her cheeks,
which turned to pity for the poor wretches who had died so
horribly. She kept her gaze fixed on the churchyard, its beauty
marred by groups of unkempt soldiers languishing against
gravestones, while others trampled the grass.

“
Don’t
stare,” Bayle warned, halting the cart beside an oak door that
showed evidence of violent treatment - dents gouged in the wood at
eye level, and splinters.

In response to his knock, the door swung
inward, revealing a diminutive woman in a brown dress, over which
she wore a white apron; a housewife cap framed her face. Her eyes
widened and wordlessly, she ushered them inside, casting a fearful
look behind them before closing the door.

“
Nathan!” Her hand went to her throat and the years drained
from her face, giving a glimpse of the lovely woman she had once
been. “I had not thought to see you here, and at such a
time.”

The old stone built house had low ceilings
and lime-washed walls with flat, mullioned windows, under a
thatched roof. The ground floor consisted of two large adjoining
rooms, with a narrow corridor leading into what Helena supposed
were the rear offices. An aroma of wood-smoke and wildflowers
overlaid by the tang of vinegar and heady beeswax, combined with a
cloying, sickly smell she did not recognize.

“
Mistress Fellowes is my father’s youngest sister,” Bayle
said, taking a settle by the fireplace, drawing Helena down beside
him.

“
I thank
you for your hospitality, Mistress.” Helena inclined her
head.

“
So this
is Mistress Woulfe?” Her intelligent eyes took in Helena’s face,
before she turned to gaze lovingly at her nephew. “You shouldn’t
have come, Nathan. These are dark days.”

“
I know,
but we had little choice.” He threw Helena a meaningful
look.

On closer inspection, Helena saw that Jane
Fellowes” delicate features with a trace of worry lines etched
around her deep brown eyes were identical to Bayle’s.

She disappeared through a door, returning
with a female servant. Deferential but plainly anxious, the woman
set down a tray of ale and small cakes before shuffling away.

“
I
gather then, that Sir Jonathan joined the Duke’s men?” Mistress
Fellows poured ale into pewter jugs and handed them out.

Helena nodded, the sound of her father’s
name on the lips of this kindly stranger eliciting instant
tears.

“
Edmund
Woulfe and Sir Jonathan’s son, Aaron are also amongst them.” Bayle
took a sip of his drink. “What happened here, Aunt
Jane?”

“
When
Monmouth returned to Bridgwater last week, the Mayor begged him not
to lay siege to the town, but he was hemmed in by Feversham, so he
had little choice.”

Bayle waved his jug at the window. “And
here? I take it none of the rebels got this far?”

Helena sipped the cool yeasty ale slowly as
she listened, surprised at how delicious it tasted.

Jane shook her head. She laid down her own
jug of ale and folded her hands together, her eyes darkening in
dismay.

“
When
Lord Feversham arrived and set up camp, he billeted troopers in
every house in the village.” Jane’s mouth twisted in recollection.
“Talk in the village said he thought Monmouth was preparing to lay
siege to Bridgwater. Whether they were waiting for reinforcements
or just going to starve them out, we never knew.

“
How
were you spared?” Bayle glanced around as if searching for signs of
hostile occupation.

“
We
weren’t. The three soldiers who were quartered here are dead. The
rebels weren’t the only ones to die last night.” She gave a
dismissive wave to signify that was another story. “Dragoons
occupied the rectory and Weston Court, the manor close to here.”
She nodded toward the front window. “They were so arrogant and sure
of themselves. They spent their evenings drinking, and singing
coarse songs. We have barely slept for days…” She broke off, as if
embarrassed to mention this inconvenience in the midst of such
tragedy.

“
Were
you ever in danger, Aunt Jane?” Bayle asked.

Helena studied the woman’s face. Jane, it
suited her, simple but strong and handsome too.

“
Colonel
Wyndham insisted the whole village pledge loyalty to King James.
But that was nothing. Our guests,” she stumbled over the word,
“showed us no disrespect, and we aren’t grand enough for the
officers.” She gave a bitter laugh.

“
What
about the battle?” Bayle consumed three tiny cakes in quick
succession. Helena frowned and he grinned. “My aunt is a good
cook.”

“
No one
in Weston knew about the attack; not until we heard the gunfire in
the middle of the night. All we could do was sit here and listen.
It stopped soon after dawn and we watched them bring in the dead,
and herd the prisoners into the church.”

“
How
many are in there?” Bayle exchanged a look with Helena.

“
Hundreds.” Her voice rose in anguish. “I feel I betrayed
those poor men. We offered to tend the wounded, Gil and I, out of
Christian charity, but the officers said the rebels did not deserve
help and their suffering was God’s judgment on them for their
treachery against the King.”

“
Where
is Gil?” Bayle asked.

Helena assumed he referred to the lady’s
husband.

“
At
Langmoor Drove.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s helping
cover the pit where they laid the dead.”

“
Kings
men or rebels?” Helena spoke for the first time, her voice
strangely calm, though her hands tightened on her jug of
ale.

“
Rebels,
my dear. About a hundred and seventy of them. Five Kings” men were
given Christian burials yesterday at the church, but the men they
captured…” She licked her lips. “Colonel Kirke complained to his
superiors about the state of the graves. He ordered a gang of
workmen build a mound over them.” She smoothed nervous hands down
her skirt.

“
Kirke
did not strike me as a humanitarian.” Bayle said, his voice
bitter.

“
He is
not.” His aunt’s eyes clouded. “The mass grave is a pitiful sight.
They did not dig it deep enough and - well, the stench has already
encouraged scavenging animals.”

Helena made a choked sound and Jane
pressed her hand. “I’m sorry, my dear. These are dreadful things to
speak of, especially in front of you.”

“
I
appreciate your concern, Mistress,” Helena said. She had not come
this far to be treated like a genteel child who should be shielded
from the truth. “There is no need to keep the facts from
me.”

Jane Fellows inclined her head, admiration in
her eyes.

“
What is
happening now?” Bayle plucked another cake from the plate, chewing
thoughtfully.

“
Most of
the soldiers have returned to Axbridge to collect their cannon and
thence to London to report to the King.” She turned sad eyes on her
nephew. “Lord Feversham took his men to Wells yesterday, and
Churchill and his troops rampaged through Bridgwater, scaring the
townsfolk. They found some poor wretches, but not so many as they
hoped.” She blew her nose on her kerchief. “The Tangier regiment is
staying to guard the prisoners and take them for trial at Taunton.”
Her eyes flashed. “They are less than men, Nathan. Yesterday,
without benefit of a trial, they hanged six rebels. One of them was
Monmouth’s Dutch gunner, and a deserter from the Hampshire Militia.
We’ve no idea who the others were.”