The Forest (65 page)

Colonel Thomas Penruddock felt no emotion, personally. If Monmouth had succeeded that wouldn’t have worried him much either. He felt none of the emotion for the cause of James II that his father had felt for his brother Charles. Why should he? He wasn’t a Catholic. The reigning Stuarts had never done anything for his family to repay their loyalty. The colonelcy he wanted had gone to another. He had finally obtained it only four years before. No, he felt nothing for the Stuarts any more.

But he did believe in order and Monmouth, by rebelling, threatened disorder. As he’d failed, he must die.

The fact that this was exactly what had happened to his own poor father did not make Thomas Penruddock sympathetic in the least. Rather the reverse. Monmouth should have learned from the other man’s mistakes, he told himself grimly. The rebellion had been poorly organized and had come too soon. Very well, then. They killed my father, he thought. Let Monmouth suffer his turn now.

Monmouth’s capture had been a wretched business. Penruddock and his cavalry squadrons had been out on the ridges below Sarum and been unlucky to miss the fugitive, who had somehow slipped past them. But he had finally been discovered about seven miles west of Ringwood, disguised as a shepherd, half starved and hiding in a ditch. The honour of spotting him had gone to a militia man named Henry Parkin. Penruddock had ridden down to Ringwood as soon as he received word of the capture, out of curiosity as much as anything, and had not been surprised to find his cousin, who was a local magistrate, already there.

But now the door of the vicarage was opening. They were bringing him out. The crowd was watching expectantly.

He had been given some clothes to wear, but he was still a bedraggled figure. He looked dead beat. In that haggard face, with a week’s growth of beard, Penruddock found it hard to see the handsome, spoiled youth he had briefly caught sight of that day in the Forest, fifteen years ago, when he had gone to see the king.

They didn’t waste any time. They hustled him down the street, past a row of thatched Tudor cottages, to a larger house by the market place where he could be conveniently held under guard.

‘What will they do with him now?’ Penruddock asked his cousin.

‘Keep him here a day or two,’ the magistrate replied, ‘then to the Tower of London I should think.’

‘My men are still out looking for fugitives. I hear they’ve rounded up hundreds further west.’ He looked after the figure of Monmouth as he disappeared into the other house. ‘You think he has any chance?’

‘Doubt it.’ The magistrate shook his head. ‘I’m sure he’ll appeal to the king for mercy, but’ – he gave his cousin a sidelong glance – ‘with the feeling in the country the way it is, I doubt whether the king can afford to let him live.’

Colonel Thomas Penruddock nodded. Even with Monmouth dead, Catholic King James II was unlikely, in his opinion, to be secure on his throne for very long.

His cousin the magistrate, echoing his thoughts, looked down at the ground. ‘Too little, too soon,’ he murmured.

The crowd was breaking up.

‘I think I’m going,’ Colonel Penruddock remarked and was just turning his horse’s head when he noticed a man who, it occurred to him, looked uncommonly like a turnip – a rather grumpy turnip, come to that. The fellow seemed to be watching them. ‘Who’s that ugly fellow?’ he asked his cousin. ‘Any idea?’

The magistrate glanced at William Furzey and shrugged. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Looks like a turnip.’

Although William Furzey knew perfectly well who the magistrate was, and had been gazing with mild envy at the fine horses that he and the Colonel rode, his mind had not been on the Penruddocks at all.

If he was not looking his best that morning, it really wasn’t his fault. He’d only just got back from Oakley when he heard about Monmouth’s defeat and the reward. He hadn’t wasted any time. He’d seized a cudgel and a short length of rope, put a loaf of bread and an apple in a napkin, sent word to the farmer that he was sick and prepared to set off.

Of course, he had known it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. On the other hand, it would have been foolish not to try. And, as he thought about it, William Furzey reckoned he had a chance.

After all, Monmouth had to be looking for a port. Lymington, therefore, was still his best bet. True, the king’s troops were watching the place, but Lymington was full of sympathizers and you could hide an army of fugitives in the Forest. He’d only need to get word to some of the people down by the quay. The Seagulls, to William Furzey’s knowledge, would take the devil himself as long as he paid.

How would the fugitive get to Lymington? He’d certainly avoid Fordingbridge and Ringwood, but he’d have to cross the river Avon.

Tyrrell’s Ford, then. It was the obvious place.

So Furzey had sidled up to a group of troops gathered in Ringwood market place and asked casually if any of their number had gone south along the river. They had told him no. He’d already noticed that not one of the troops who had arrived was a local man. Typical, he thought, of the authorities to conduct a search with soldiers unfamiliar with the territory.

But it was good for him. Without another word, he’d set off for Tyrrell’s Ford.

He’d waited down there a day and a night before he heard that his quest was in vain and Monmouth was already found: due west of Ringwood, though, and heading south. Monmouth had been heading for Tyrrell’s Ford all right.

The thought that he’d been cheated of his reward so narrowly did nothing to improve his temper.

Colonel Penruddock and his men continued to search the area around Sarum for several more days. They found no one. Meanwhile, however, the numbers taken in the west went to over a thousand.

Then the search slowed and stopped. There was a watch kept at every town, of course, but all seemed quiet.

Figures in the landscape. There were still fugitives out there, however: men of the Protestant cause; men who had vanished into houses where they could find shelter; men who must keep moving on, cautiously, towards the Forest.

Two weeks after the arrest of Monmouth, Alice Lisle could bear it no longer. Peter Albion had been calling almost every day.

Although Monmouth had written to King James and even had an interview with him, it hadn’t done him any good. A week after his capture, on the little green in the Tower of London, he was executed. Meanwhile, preparations were in hand to deal with the huge mass of his followers who had been captured down in the West Country. A huge assize, at which they would all be tried, was to be held in August, with James’s hand-picked man, Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys, presiding.

Yet none of this seemed to alter Peter Albion’s view. ‘The king is just going to make himself more hated. I predict nothing but trouble,’ he announced.

And I predict nothing but trouble for you
, Alice thought,
if you don’t keep your mouth shut
.

Her terror was that he was going to propose marriage. She had no doubt that Betty would want him. And then what was she to do? Refuse her consent? Cut Betty off?

When she confided her fears to Tryphena and even that she was afraid Betty might elope, Tryphena with her usual tact, nodded sagely. ‘We must consider, Mother, that although Betty loves you, if she had to choose between you and a young man she will certainly choose him.’

The best course, surely, was to keep the two apart. Once Monmouth was executed and the search for his followers dying down, Alice felt she could safely return to the Forest. Indeed, it was looking a safer place than London every day, with the threat of Peter Albion so present. But she also feared that, if she announced their departure, it might bring matters to a head with Albion and provoke a proposal.

A week after Monmouth’s execution, however, he announced that he must go down into Kent for a few days upon business. Telling him that she looked forward to seeing him on his return, Alice said a fond farewell. The very next morning she told Betty they were leaving for the country before noon.

By that night they were already at an inn twenty miles down the road.

‘We should be in Winchester by tomorrow night,’ Alice said cheerfully.

Jim Pride was surprised, two days later, to see a carriage containing Alice and Betty Lisle passing through Lyndhurst. At the same moment he saw them, Alice Lisle caught sight of him and waved for him to come over.

Betty, he noticed, was looking a bit subdued, but Alice greeted him warmly, asked after his father and mother, and demanded to know all the news.

The Forest, as it happened, had been quiet for a week, until today. A rumour from somewhere had caused the authorities to think there might be fugitives about to embark from Lymington. There had been a house-to-house search there that morning, but nothing had been found.

‘I reckon it’ll all be quiet after this,’ Jim said.

Alice, however, had looked thoughtful. ‘I think, all the same, we won’t go to Albion House just yet,’ she said. ‘It’s too close to Lymington.’ She smiled at Pride. ‘Tell the coachman we’ll go to Moyles Court instead,’ she requested. ‘We’ve still time to get there before dark.’ Moyles Court, right across in the Avon valley, seemed a safer bet altogether.

William Furzey had just finished work for the day and he was walking up the Avon to a spot where he intended to do a little unobserved fishing, when he came upon the man on the horse. The horse was not impressive. The man was a rather frail-looking fellow, with grey hair and mild, watery blue eyes. He seemed to be lost. ‘Could you tell me’,’ he enquired, ‘the way to Moyles Court?’

William eyed him. A townsman by the look of him, a small trader or craftsman, perhaps. Didn’t sound local. William Furzey wasn’t stupid; he knew an opportunity when he saw it. The fish could wait. ‘’T’ain’t easy to find,’ he said. The house was, in fact, less than a mile off by a straight lane. The stranger looked tired. ‘I could take you there,’ William offered, ‘but it’d be out of my way.’

‘Would sixpence repay your kindness?’ A day labourer’s wage was eight pence. Sixpence from an ordinary townsman like this, therefore, was handsome. He must want to find the place badly. Furzey nodded.

He took a circuitous route. Moyles Court lay in a clearing just below the ridge that led up from the Avon valley to the heathland of the Forest. This part of the valley was quite wooded, so it wasn’t difficult for Furzey to stretch the journey to two miles, taking paths that sometimes doubled back on themselves. Since the stranger made no remark, Furzey concluded that his sense of direction wasn’t strong. It also gave him the chance to find out more about him. Had he come from far? The man was evasive. What was his occupation?

‘I am a baker,’ his companion admitted.

A baker, from a long way off, prepared to pay sixpence to find Moyles Court. This man was almost certainly a dissenter, then, looking for that damned Lisle woman. Furzey bided his time before speaking. ‘You seek a godly lady,’ he ventured in a pious voice, at the next wrong turn he made.

‘You think so?’

‘I do. If it is Dame Alice you seek.’

‘Ah.’ The baker looked pleased. His watery blue eyes brightened hopefully.

Furzey wasn’t quite sure where this conversation would lead, but one thing was certain: the more he could learn from this man, the more chance he had of using it for profit. And the beginning of an idea was starting to form in his mind. ‘There are many good folk she has helped,’ Furzey continued. He thought of the hated Prides and mentioned the names of some of their Lymington relations. ‘But I must be careful what I say,’ he added, ‘not knowing who you may be.’

And now the poor fool smiled gladly. ‘You may know me, friend,’ he cried. ‘My name is Dunne and I come all the way from Warminster. I have a message to deliver to Dame Alice.’

Warminster: west of Sarum by twenty miles. A long way for a dissenting baker to be carrying a message. His first suspicions began to grow. This fellow might be useful indeed.

‘By what name may I know you?’ the baker asked eagerly.

Furzey hesitated. He hadn’t the least intention of giving his name to this probably dangerous friend of the cursed Lisle woman. ‘Thomas, Sir. Just Thomas,’ he replied, adding cautiously: ‘These are difficult times for godly men.’

‘They are, Thomas. I know it.’ The baker’s watery blue eyes gave him a look of tender understanding.

Furzey led him on another hundred yards before quietly remarking: ‘If a man needed shelter, in these dangerous times, this’d be a good place, I should say.’

Yes. There was no doubt of it, the baker was looking at him gratefully. ‘You think so?’

‘I do. Praise God,’ Furzey added devoutly. He had run out of detours now, but he knew all he needed to. ‘Moyles Court lies just up there.’ He pointed. It was less than a quarter-mile. ‘Your business and that of Dame Alice is your own, Sir, so I’ll leave you here. But may I ask if you will be remaining there or returning?’

‘Returning forthwith, good Thomas.’

‘Then, if you need a guide to conduct you on your way so that you will not be seen, I’ll wait for you, if you please.’ With gratitude the baker thanked him and went upon his way.

William Furzey sat on a tree stump. There was no doubt in his mind now as to what this must mean. The baker was helping fugitives. Why else should he come and go again like this? He wanted to bring them to Dame Alice. He smiled to himself. He might have missed Monmouth himself – and several people who had helped find Monmouth had been handsomely rewarded – but if the baker’s friends were of any importance then there’d surely be something in it for him. The question was, how and where to find them? He couldn’t very well accompany this baker all the way home. But if the men were to be brought to Moyles Court … A grin spread over his face. That would bode ill, now, for that cursed Dame Alice, wouldn’t it?

An hour passed before Dunne the baker returned. One look at his face was enough. He was smiling contentedly.

‘You saw Dame Alice?’ Furzey enquired.

‘I did, my friend. And I told her of your kindness. She was curious as to who you were, but I said you were a quiet fellow who minded his own business and wished to know nothing of ours.’