The Chevalier Read online

  Matt was pleased; but all the same, apprehensive, for kindness from Birch surely portended some disaster.

  The door shut with a soft click, leaving them alone in the tumbling shadows of the fire.

  ‘Shall I send for candles?' Martin said, glancing out of the window. 'It's quite dark outside.'

  ‘I can see well enough,' Annunciata said, turning to him. When Martin had told her that terrible day that the King had fled the country, she had known that it was the end for her, and she had wanted to die, had prayed for it. But miraculously, a little space had been granted them. Prince William had not sent soldiers to tear down Morland Place and throw her and Martin into the Tower; social pressures had not forced her and Martin apart; the children had not discovered the truth about Aliena. Annunciata's spirits had revived, and hope had sprung up in her, and with the hope, a fierce desire to live.

  And now that she had had those few brief weeks of life, she did not want to relinquish it again. She had thought, when Martin came home and rescued her from the hands of the mob, the priest-killers, that the complication of their relationship would make it impossible for them to stay together. But now, looking at his dear face, she felt that those same complications, thicket after thicket of difficulties, made it impossible for them to part. Her love for him welled up in her, strong and joyous, bubbling upwards like the source of a mighty river. She clasped her hands together and pressed them against her breast-bone as if she feared that her ribs would spring open from the pressure of that flood.

  Martin looked at her, and saw her face alight and her eyes brilliant with some strange and vivid joy, and he thought, dear God, there is no one like her! Two months ago he had seen her in despair, bowed, defeated, and he had thought that she would die. Worse than that, he had thought that she would go away from him. But now, look! From whence came that vitality, that spirit, he wondered? He smiled at her, and she held her hands out to him, and when he took them she laughed.

  ‘Karellie will go,' she said. 'How he longs for a battle!'

  ‘And Maurice?' he asked.

  ‘I hope not Maurice,' she said. 'Karellie has it in his blood and in his heart, and he will make a fine soldier. Perhaps that is all he will make. But Maurice - Maurice has something else in him, more important than the change of dynasties.'

  ‘My lady,' Martin said in mock reproach, 'what could be more important than the change of dynasties?' Everything that was alive of her was in his hands, as if the force of her energy flowed through them and into him like the strong current of a river. 'You will have to go abroad,' he said.

  ‘What, now?' she said. She thought he was jesting. 'How should I desert my country now? I shall be needed here, to greet the King when he arrives.'

  ‘Listen, my heart,' he said steadily, 'the campaign will not take days or weeks. It will take months. It will not be so very easy to dislodge the Dutchman - he is an old campaigner, and he has good troops. And he will want to secure his rear when he goes out to Ireland to face the attack.'

  ‘He has left us alone so far,' Annunciata said.

  ‘But he will not, once the King lands in Ireland. You are too well-known. You will draw attention to Morland Place. My dearest, it is not for your own safety alone I say this -God forbid that I should stop you flinging your slender life in the path of your enemies-’

  It was only half a joke. She would never forget the horror of those endless moments when she held the staircase against the mob, while they murdered and mutilated her priest.

  ‘Without you, I think he will leave Morland Place alone. You must consider the family.'

  ‘You want me to go into exile?' she said. The very word was a horror.

  Tor a short time. Until the campaign is won, and the King restored.'

  ‘And you, you will stay here, I suppose?' Her voice was hard. She could endure anything, but to be parted from him.

  ‘You forget,' he said lightly, 'I am already an exile.' She would not take that. She turned her eyes from him in pain.

  ‘The King exiled you - the Usurper will pardon you. That is the way it works.'

  ‘Not if I fight against him.’

  Her eyes came back to him, alight with laughter. 'You? Ah, Martin, Martin!' And she pressed herself against him. She was laughing, but her cheek against his cheek was wet. He wound his arms round her, tightly, tightly, smelling the sweet smell of her skin, feeling the harshness of her black hair against his neck, and her hands strong against his back, pulling him closer. This was life, the touch of her; to be apart from her was death.

  ‘Everything must be done, to ensure a swift victory,' he said, his lips to her hair. 'I have endured one exile. A swift assured blow, and the end to all this - that is our only hope.’

  For a while they rested against each other, drawing strength, and then she freed herself gently and straightened, looking at him levelly, like a soldier. 'We have so little time,' she said. 'We must make plans.’

  *

  Clovis was to stay at Morland Place, as its guardian, and guardian of the fortunes of the children who were the future's hope. It was a grave burden to lay upon him, but there was no one else. The only other adults of the Morland family left now were Martin's sister Sabine who, recently widowed and childless, was running the three Northumberland estates, one belonging to the family, and two of her own; and Clovis's half-sister Cathy, married to cousin Kit Morland, who lived in Scotland where they had an estate and one sickly son.

  ‘You will manage, I know,' Annunciata said. 'I am sorry to lay so heavy a task on you, but you are strong for it, and I hope you will forgive me.'

  ‘I owe everything to you,' Clovis said gravely. 'And it will not be for long.'

  ‘You will write and let Cathy and Sabine know?' Annunciata said. 'It will come better from you.' 'I dare say they will have their own troubles. There will surely be a rising in Scotland.'

  ‘We must all help each other.' She bit her lip. 'I feel I should not be running away.’

  He took her hand and pressed it. 'We have gone through all that. You know it is best.' His hand was warm and steady, and reassured her. He was strong with some strength that she had never traced to its source, not associating it with herself. Even Clovis did not know what it was precisely that he felt for Annunciata: he only knew that all his life his heart had slept in her shadow, and that though he had had many opportunities to marry, and marry well, there could be no place for any woman in his life while he served her.

  It was hard to say goodbye to Father St Maur, whose spirit was willing to go with his mistress, but whose flesh was weak.

  ‘The children need you,' Annunciata said to hide her emotion. 'To whom else could I trust their education and their souls?’

  Hard to say goodbye to the servants, who had been so faithful, who had fought beside her, cared for her and been cared for by her for so many years. Hard to say goodbye to Jane Birch, who had been with her since she had first gone to London, almost thirty years ago, who had witnessed all the triumphs and griefs of her life. But the ague that had swept through Morland Place in the winter had left Birch feeble, and a sea-journey in early March would have been too much for her. She accepted that she must stay behind without comment, but when the moment came to part, her eyes, shallow with encroaching blindness, filled with tears.

  ‘You are needed here,' Annunciata said. 'It won't be for long.'

  ‘Yes, my lady,' Birch said, holding herself rigid. Annunciata wanted to kiss her, but she knew it would break Birch's control, and that Birch would feel ashamed to cry in front of the other servants. So Annunciata said, ‘Help Clovis. Look to the children. I shall come back very soon.'

  ‘Yes, my lady,' Birch said, but her eyes spoke a different truth.

  Hard to say goodbye to Karellie, who would be leaving the next day with Martin and some of the men for Ireland. Her tall boy, with his easy lounging grace, Ralph's height and colouring and features, nothing of Annunciata about him except the dark Stuart eyes. She had taken him aside the previous
night and, with great pain to herself, had told him the secret of his ancestry: that Prince Rupert, whom Annunciata had loved, and whose mistress she had almost become, was in fact her father. Only intervention at the last moment had prevented that terrible thing, for Annunciata's mother had never disclosed her father's identity. The intervention had come in time to prevent the deed, but too late to change the love she had in her heart, which for ever afterwards must be shut away, hidden and denied. But it was important for Karellie, on the eve of such an important campaign, to know what blood flowed in his veins.

  ‘You are a Stuart, Karellie,' she said, 'great-great-grandson of King James the first, grandson of the greatest soldier the world has ever known. Your grandfather fought to preserve King Charles upon his throne. Now you will fight to restore the throne to King James, your cousin. Be worthy of the Stuart name.’

  *

  In the grey half-light before dawn they left Morland Place for Aldbrough, where a ship awaited them. Though planned hastily, this was no fugitive flight, and Annunciata was taking with her horses and servants and money and jewels, for she did not want to come a beggar to St Germain. She took the baby Aliena, and Maurice; Dorcas to look after the baby; Chloris, a servant-girl Nan, her footman Gifford, a groom Daniel, and John Wood to attend Maurice.

  The ground was still frost-hard, and they made good time, avoiding the deep, frozen ruts of the roads and riding over the open fields, where the stubble had long since been eaten by the overwintering cattle. They reached the little harbour in the early afternoon, finding the ship rocking gently at anchor between the grey sea and the grey sky, and were able to get everything aboard by dark. Then came the last goodbye of all. Gifford retreated, without being asked, to the edge of the foam, and Martin sent his armed escort to wait further up the beach, and that was all the privacy they could gain.

  ‘My lady,' Martin said, taking her hands. Those two words alone were enough to undo her. Tomorrow he would ride off for Ireland, there to do battle for his king. 'Oh Martin, take care, take care,' she said. The salty wind whipped stray fronds of her hair about her brows where they escaped from her hood.

  ‘As much care as may be,' he said. He drew her to him, and kissed her cheeks and eyes. They were damp and salty, but whether from the sea-wind or from tears he did not know. Her skin was cold under his mouth. He sought her lips, and they were cold too, but warmed under the touch of his. He closed his eyes.

  ‘Oh God, I love you,' he whispered. 'Only you, for ever.' The sound of the sea, coldly chattering on stones, and the whimpering of seagulls, blown like damp rags about the sky; the smell of salt, and broken seaweed. The tide would not wait for them. They clung together, even as they pushed themselves apart, and their eyes still touched when they stood separate.

  ‘God go with you, Martin,' she said. 'Clovis will send me word, but write to me, if you can.'

  ‘I will. God bless you, my lady. Oh, God keep you.', Gifford came to help her on board, and as soon as she was over the side, the sailors broke into frenzied action from their watchful stillness. Martin stood on the shore, huddled into his cloak against the freshening wind, and watched as the graceful little ship shook out her sails, gathered steerage way, and then span about and leapt eagerly towards the incoming waves. The darkness was deepening, and soon she was only a glimmer of sails and a thicker core of darkness in the murk. Martin was not aware of the moment when she disappeared, for he continued to stare after her into the darkness as if his mind saw with a clearer eye, following her progress over the cold, grey-green waves. At length one of his men came down to him, had actually to tap his arm to gain his attention.

  ‘Best we get going, Master,' the man said gently. 'It's mortal cold, and the tide's coming in.’

  Martin looked down with a start and saw the foam lipping almost to his feet.

  ‘Yes,' he said. 'I'm coming now.’

  *

  The Château of St Germain was an ugly red-brick building on a medieval foundation, but its setting was beautiful, with gardens that ran down to the River Seine, and roof terraces that looked over the great game-forest that earlier French Kings had planted west of Paris. The forest teemed with game; splendid trees grouped around ornamental lakes, linked by broad, mossy rides; and beyond its curly dark poll could be seen, misty and beautiful, the roofs and spires of Paris.

  Annunciata wrote to Clovis to tell of her kind reception there. The Queen in exile was warmer and more accessible than she had been at Whitehall, and was evidently also glad that Annunciata had not arrived penniless, as did most of the exiles. She granted Annunciata an apartment on the first staircase, which was the best, and made her a Lady of the Bedchamber, as well as making Maurice Gentleman of the Chapel Royal. Annunciata reported that the Queen was evidently deeply shocked and miserable at finding herself in exile, but that the King wrote cheerfully from Ireland, and the King of France and all the French royal family were generous and attentive. The Prince of Wales was thriving, and Maurice had written an anthem to celebrate his first birthday on to June, which the King of France had said was very good.

  Clovis responded with frequent letters that arrived via his secret route. He could give little news of the campaign in Ireland, other than that Martin and Karellie had arrived safely, but he gave her news of the family. Martin's sister Sabine, unable, so it seemed, to endure her widowhood, had married her steward, a man called Jack Francomb. Clovis added that Sabine was expecting a child in December, so it looked as though the steward's comforting preceded his marriage with his mistress.

  Cathy was also expecting a child, due in July. Kit had gone north to join up with Viscount Dundee, known as Bonnie Dundee, who was raising the Highlands for King James. The Usurper's army under Mackay was hoping for help from the Covenanters, but Dundee was the better general and the more popular man. A victory in Scotland would be of enormous help to the King in Ireland.

  But on the last day of July the news came that though the Highlanders had won a tremendous victory over Mackay's army at Killiecrankie, Bonnie Dundee had fallen in the battle, and without his leadership the Highlanders were already drifting away, back to their mountains and valleys. And, in the same battle, Kit Morland had met his end.

  Cathy's baby was born a week before the battle, a girl, and healthy. Cathy's pregnancies had been unfortunate, leaving her with only one child, and he frail, and Sabine, despite her condition, had gone with her husband to stay with Cathy at Aberlady and see her through her confinement. In gratitude, Cathy had named her new baby Sabina. Sabine had begged Cathy to go back with her to Northumberland and make her home there, but Cathy had refused, saying that her duty lay with Scotland and her son.

  August brought another letter from Clovis, with no better news. The Highlanders had been thoroughly defeated at Dunkeld, and there was no hope of another Scottish campaign that year, and even if a leader could be found to replace Dundee, it was doubtful how much chance he would have of raising the Highlands again for some years. And Princess Anne's son, born at Hampton Court in July, whose life had been despaired of because he suffered from fits, had not only survived his first month, but was now actually flourishing with a wet-nurse and looked likely to survive. Princess Anne had named the boy William after her brother-in-law, a piece of essential tact, and the child had been given the title of Duke of Gloucester.

  The news sank the exiled Court into gloom. William Duke of Gloucester provided the Protestant party with the thing they had signally lacked, an heir, a rival to the infant Prince of Wales. It became more than ever essential that the King should dislodge his son-in-law without delay; but Scotland seemed already lost, and the news from Ireland was, at best, uncertain.

  CHAPTER TWO

  July of 1690 had been hot, weeks of white glare. The streams had shrunk, the earth baked, and there was a film of dust over the dark green grass and the leaves of the trees. The harvests had been early and abundant, and the children, who would normally have been carrying and gleaning at this time, had nothing to do but
run and play all day, and get themselves into trouble.

  Two dusty boys came down to the Foss from High Moor Farm one afternoon when the shadows lay deep like sharp-edged cuts under every grass blade. They looked much alike at first glance, of a height and build, dressed in shirts, stout breeches to the knee, and nothing below but a caking of white dust. One had straight, bushy hair of fieldmouse brown, and a great many freckles: he was Davey, the youngest grandson of Conn the shepherd. The other had very dark, curly hair, though with the summer dust it looked almost as mousy as his companion's; and eyes of dark Morland blue that were bright in a face as brown as a hazel-nut: he was James Matthias, heir to Morland Place, the 'young master'.

  Reaching the beck they tore off their clothes with a frantic eagerness, dropping them amongst the alder-roots, and jumped into the cool, brown, swirling water, shrieking with delight at the shock of coldness on their baked skin. ‘Oh! It's so cold! I could drink it, I'm so thirsty.' ‘Horses do. Look, Matt, can you do this? Matt!' ‘I'm an old water otter. Look, Davey, look at me! I'm an otter.’

  After a while they climbed out and stretched on the bank, the water rivering off them to soak the parched grass, the sun drying their hair. Matt lay back, propping his head on his folded arms, and squinted down at his butter-brown skin. The water had already receded into single drops, each lying like a transparent pearl, perfectly hemispherical, and magnifying the texture of his skin like a telescope-glass. He squinted up at the cornflower-blue sky, and there were drops on his eyelashes too, so that for a moment he tried to make-believe he had been crying. But he couldn't remember how to be sad today, not today. He concentrated hard, remembering that he had no mother, that his father had gone to Ireland to fight the Usurper's army (once he had accidentally referred to the Usurper as 'king', and Birch had boxed his ear) but today the contentedness sat inside him like a good dinner, and he could not, could not make himself stop smiling.