Read Just Beyond Tomorrow Online
Authors: Bertrice Small
Just Beyond Tomorrow (37 page)
“It was,” Sir Peter replied. “The king has been justly beaten, and while his person is still at large, rest assured, my dear, that God will deliver him into our hands for execution shortly.”
“Then, you know where he is?” Barbara pressed.
“Well, no, but we are on his trail,” Sir Peter said pompously, “and we will certainly catch him. Who in England will shelter him but for possibly some of the traitorous Catholics? If those he believes are his adherents were English, would there not have been a popular uprising in his favor? But there was not. The man who calls himself King of England came over the border with a small troop of his Scots rabble. We will soon have Scotland under our thumb as well. Then there will be no place for this Charles Stuart to hide. The criminals who supported him, however, may be roaming the countryside, my dear, and so you must be vigilant. It is unlikely that they have come to the southwest, but these Scots are not very intelligent. They have probably, with their leader, fled north, but we are in pursuit. In a very short time we will catch this man. We have already begun executing those traitors in Worcester. We've torn down the city's walls in punishment and rounded up as many Anglicans and Catholics as we could find. Depending on the nature of their crimes, they will either be jailed, transported, or executed.” He arose. “I must be on my way home, my dear. You should be safe, but be on your guard nonetheless. It is unlikely anyone will come your way.” Then Sir Peter took his leave of Barbara Carver.
She watched him go from the doorway of her house, and when he had disappeared over the hills, she hurried into the parlor to open up the priest's hole. There she found Patrick dozing peacefully, his back against the wall. She woke him, relieved that he had not been a party to her embarrassment. Then she told him what Sir Peter had disclosed.
Patrick nodded. “Charlie was right to leave before dawn for Bristol,” he said. “Now the question is when can I return north.”
“I think we must wait until the furor has died down. Once the king is either caught or successfully makes his way to France, then you will be safe to depart. I have travel papers that just require the filling in of a name. Sir Peter gave them to me months ago in the event that I should want to make a journey of any sort. But you must wait, Patrick Leslie. I could not face Charlie again one day if I got you killed or imprisoned. Promise me that you will do nothing foolish. I know how you long to be back at your beloved Glenkirk with your wife and new child, but you must be patient, if not for yourself, for them.”
“For a time, at least,” he promised her. “I need to know more before I dare to venture home, Barbara Carver.”
The king had, indeed, escaped Worcester, going through the same gates his cousin had earlier exited through. The Duke of Hamilton had been killed that day in the fighting, but the king was accompanied by the Scottish Lord Lauderdale, the Earl of Derby, and the Duke of Buckingham. The king's only contact with Roman Catholics had been with the French priests who served his mother and the Irish who occasionally peopled his father's court. Now, on the advice of Derby, he put himself into the hands of the English Roman Catholics and discovered while they were faithful to their church, they were also the loyalest of the loyal to their king and to their country.
Disguised as a laborer, he sheltered first with the Penderells, a family of yeoman farmers at their farm, Whiteladies, in Shropshire. They hid him in the woods and attempted to get him into Wales, but to everyone's distress, the local militia was holding all the bridges over the Wye. The king was then taken to Boscobel, where he was hidden first in the house, then the gardens, and finally he was forced to climb an oak tree where he hid as Cromwell's men searched all about below him. By the seventh of September, but four days after his defeat, he was at Moseley Hall. On the tenth of the month, disguised now as a tenant farmer's son, he escorted Mistress Jane Lane, a royalist's daughter, to visit a friend at Abbot's Leigh near Bristol. Mistress Lane had the proper passes for traveling.
He remained briefly at the manor of Abbot's Leigh, unrecognized by the family. He was, however, recognized by the family's butler. The butler, glad to be of service to his king, advised Charles to take Mistress Lane and ride across Somerset. Following the man's advice, the king reached Trent Hall on the sixteenth of September. He was now under the protection of his old friend Francis Wyndham and a group of royalists.
They could not find a ship at Dover. The ports all along that particular part of the coast were full of Cromwell's soldiers preparing to leave for Jersey to take it and the other Channel isles under their
protection.
The royalists set about to find a ship that could sail from the Hampshire or Sussex coast. Locating a suitable and sturdy vessel, they quickly brought the king aboard. On October fourteenth, he sailed from Shoreham, landing at Fecamp in Normandy two days later. By the twentieth of October, all of England knew that Charles Stuart had escaped Oliver Cromwell's grasp, and while he was not there, England still had a king.
protection.
The royalists set about to find a ship that could sail from the Hampshire or Sussex coast. Locating a suitable and sturdy vessel, they quickly brought the king aboard. On October fourteenth, he sailed from Shoreham, landing at Fecamp in Normandy two days later. By the twentieth of October, all of England knew that Charles Stuart had escaped Oliver Cromwell's grasp, and while he was not there, England still had a king.
Upon hearing the news as she shopped in the nearby village, Barbara Carver told Patrick Leslie that it was now safe for him to return home. She had enjoyed his company, but it was time. He departed before first light on the morning of October twenty-second. Old Lucy had baked him a supply of oatcakes and filled his flasks with both wine and water. He thanked her and bid her farewell. Mistress Carver had told him the night before that she would not be up when he went, and so he had said his good-byes the previous evening, thanking her for her care. His shoulder was now healed but for the scar.
He rode north, and then north and east, over the next weeks, always taking the road less traveled, never stopping where he might have to speak with anyone lest they know him for a Scot and call the local authorities down upon him. It was lonely, and it was cold as the autumn began to near winter. He crossed the border just north of Otterburn, riding across the Cheviot hills. He avoided Edinburgh, taking a ferry across the Firth of Forth, riding across Fife and ferrying across the Firth of Tay. He crossed the South Esk, the North Esk, the rivers Dee and Don. The hills rose up all around him, and he stopped briefly to take his plaid from his saddle and wrap it about him for warmth, because now he would not be arrested if someone saw him or spoke to him. His heart began to beat faster as he suddenly realized that he was recognizing landmarks. He pushed the big dappled gray stallion harder. The cold air smelled of home. Then suddenly he exited the forest, and ahead of him stood Glenkirk Castle. He had been on the road for over a month, and he was tired, but tonight he would sleep in his own bed, with his beloved wife.
Flanna stood atop the battlements of Glenkirk as she did each afternoon, looking south, seeking him, willing him home. Her breasts were swollen with her milk that was even now beginning to seep through her gown. She sighed, and was about to turn away when she saw the rider. He was yet distant,
but she knew.
In her heart she knew it was her Patrick. Flanna, her pulses racing, forced herself to climb carefully down the ladder from the rooftop to the corridor below. Then she dashed down the several flights of stairs, racing into the hall, shouting,
“He's home! He's home!”
but she knew.
In her heart she knew it was her Patrick. Flanna, her pulses racing, forced herself to climb carefully down the ladder from the rooftop to the corridor below. Then she dashed down the several flights of stairs, racing into the hall, shouting,
“He's home! He's home!”
She ran from the hall and out the door of the castle into the courtyard, shouting. She ran through the courtyard and beneath the iron portcullis across the oaken drawbridge. Her bodice was soaked through with her milk, her red hair was flying, and she smelled like a cow, but she ran directly toward him. And he jumped off his stallion before he had even pulled it to a stop and ran to her, enfolding her in his arms, swinging her about. They laughed as if they were mad. Then the laughter died as suddenly as it had begun, and Patrick Leslie kissed his wife as she had never been kissed before, and was kissed in return in the same fashion.
“I knew ye were nae dead!” she finally said as together they walked back to the castle.
“Who said I was dead?” he asked, surprised.
“Ye dinna come home, and we heard the king was beaten and fled to France. I hae never seen so many peddlers as I hae seen this autumn, all of them filled wi' news and eager to share it, though how much of it was true, I dinna know. What kept ye so long in England?”
“Welcome home, my lord!” Angus Gordon was beaming as Patrick entered the hall. He shoved a goblet of wine into the duke's hands.
“Ah, here ye are safe and sound, and us so fearful for ye,” Mary More-Leslie said, and then she began to weep.
Patrick hugged his housekeeper. “Now, Mary, I only went down into England to fetch my brother,” he soothed her.
“And where is that feckless laddie?” she demanded.
“In France, lo these many weeks.” He laughed. “Where is Henry?”
“In England, lo these many weeks,” Flanna parroted him. “Did ye think I was going to wait until ye returned to hae the bairns? I sent him home a week after I hae them. And a good thing, too. Do ye wish to see yer sons, my lord?” She took him by the hand, leading him across the Great Hall to two cradles by the fireplace above which hung the portrait of his ancestor, the first Earl of Glenkirk.
Patrick Leslie stared down in astonishment.
Two!
He had sired two sons!
Two!
He had sired two sons!
“They're already baptized, so ye'll hae to be content wi' their names,” she told him. “We couldna be waiting for ye to finally wend yer way home, Patrick Leslie.”
“What are they called?” he asked.
Two. Two sons!
Two. Two sons!
“The next duke is James, and the Earl of Brae is Angus,” she said quietly. “They were born on the nineteenth of August.”
His sons stared up at him dispassionately. They were as alike as two peas in a pod. Each had a head full of black hair. Each had blue eyes, but then he remembered all babies began with blue eyes. They were plump and very alert.
“Well?” Flanna demanded.
“They're wonderful!” he exclaimed.
“Is that all ye hae to say to me? My family was delirious wi' delight when they learned I hae given ye twin sons, Patrick Leslie,” she told him, “and all ye can say to me is
wonderful?”
Then she laughed, for from the moment she had said
sons,
he had gotten a dumbstruck look on his face that was yet there. Then she once again became aware of her now very wet bodice, and said, “The bairns must be fed.”
wonderful?”
Then she laughed, for from the moment she had said
sons,
he had gotten a dumbstruck look on his face that was yet there. Then she once again became aware of her now very wet bodice, and said, “The bairns must be fed.”
And there was Aggie, unlacing Flanna's bodice and exclaiming with distress at the condition it was in, not to mention her chemise beneath. Flanna sat by the fire and undid the chemise. Aggie handed her first one child, and then the other. The children began immediately to suck noisily upon her breasts, the milk bubbling about their little mouths as they greedily nursed.
Patrick stared, fascinated, at his wife's white breasts with their pale blue veins. His sons obviously had voracious appetites. Drawing up a chair, he sat by her side. “How do ye tell which one is which?” he asked her.
“Jamie hae wee mole just above his left lip, but Angus does nae. Yer mam hae just such a mark in her portrait. I checked to see if it were nae a bit of dust, but it isna,” Flanna told him.
“Nay, it isna dust,” Patrick said. “ 'Tis a family marking.”
“Then, ye can certainly hae nae doubts anymore,” Flanna said softly, and she looked directly at him.
“Did we nae settle this months ago?” he demanded of her.
“Aye, but I wanted to be certain,” she said sweetly.
“Jesu, woman! They both look just like me!” he swore softly.
“Did ye think so?” she murmured with false innocence.
“Motherhood hae nae softened ye,” he replied, but his eyes were dancing wickedly.
“The bairns will be full soon,” she said. “Are ye hungry?”
“Aye!” His look was meaningful.
“I'll see that the cook hae a good supper for ye, my lord, and then ye'll want to sleep in yer own bed, I'm sure,” she said.
“I'll want to sleep in yer bed,” he told her, and chuckled when she colored. “So, ye can still blush like a lass, even though ye're a shameless hussy wi' bairns of yer own, Flanna Leslie.”
She said nothing, but instead, after she had finished feeding her sons, she arose and told him, “I'll go and prepare a bath for ye, my lord, for ye'll nae get into my bed wi' the stink of yer journey on ye. Angus, see his lordship is fed after his long ride.”
He sat by the fire, watching his sons sleep as the food was brought to the high board. Finally, at Angus's urging, he went to eat. “She's called young Brae after ye,” he noted to the big man.
“I think she called him after the first Earl of Brae who was Angus,” came the answer.
“I dinna know the first earl, but I do know ye,” Patrick said. “I prefer to believe that my son is named for his great-uncle.”
“Thank ye, my lord,” Angus Gordon said, and he felt tears behind his eyelids.
“Sit wi' me, Angus,” the duke said, “and tell me how it went wi' her. And why did Henry leave her?”
“She birthed yer sons easily. Her sister-in-law, Una Brodie, came to be wi' her and was quite outraged at how simple it was for her.” Angus chuckled. “There was nae need for yer brother to remain after she hae had the bairns. She knew he was anxious to return to his own family at Cadby, and so she sent him off wi' a troop of Glenkirk men to see him as far as the border, for Cromwell's people hae been rooting about this summer.”
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