Traitor's Field (4 page)

He was swaying forwards again. ‘Does the lovely lady have a name, does she?’

She’d rehearsed this scene so often, full of tactics that now seemed somehow obscure, and fears that had by contrast solidified and sharpened.

‘Rachel!’ But it was not her own voice, and she stood for a moment with her mouth open and her name stumbling on her tongue. ‘Rachel!’ – Mary’s voice, nearer, with footsteps distinct on the flagstones.

Now there was another figure in the doorway, but it wasn’t her sister. Another soldier, and there was no way out and no way in for anyone else.

The man was a yard away, eyes wide and hand trembling. The backs of her legs pressed hard against the edge of the bench and her upper body shrank away clumsily above them; her hands clutched at their opposite wrists and against her bodice, in obvious show of defensiveness.

The hand came up again and this time it was right in front her face, dirty fat unsteady fingers reaching for her throat. She felt the palm flesh under her chin, the fingers pressing her skin against her jawbone. ‘Rachel!’

Mary was a pale blur behind the soldier in the doorway. Her own focus was wholly the face looming in front of her, every bloodshoot distinct in the eyes, the black hair-stubs sharp on the nose.

The teeth appeared as individual characters in the smile. ‘Rachel, is it now?’ The little tongue wandered over the lip again, and the mouth pulled open in preparation for some horror. Her fingers scrabbled clumsily at her cuffs.

‘Come on, matey.’ These, from far away, were not words she could distinguish. ‘Hurry along, won’t you? The Captain—’

A whistle squealed somewhere, and the vast face flickered in irritation. ‘That’s us,’ the other voice said, ‘hurry along.’

The mouth moved closer to hers, and the eyes widened, and her fingers fumbled like frail trembling heartbeats, and then the big egg-white eyes shifted and the focus broke and the hand dropped from her throat and reached behind her.

The man stepped away, staring intently at the silver goblet that the hand now held. ‘Lovely,’ he whispered, ‘lovely.’ He looked up at her again, and there was no intent or malice in the eyes any more. He was human again, and simple, and there was a strange innocence to his greed.

The soldier swayed briskly to the door and followed his comrade out, still watching the goblet held proud like a torch, past Mary shrunk close to the wall.

Rachel Astbury collapsed to the bench, the little dagger came free of her cuff and fell from her useless fingers, and she began to shake and gasp uncontrollably, huge painful sobs that lurched in her chest.

Astbury House was everything the Captain hated: complacent, rich, Royalist – and not even bold about the fact. Standing in the hall, stolidly fighting his own weariness, he was trying and failing to maintain his politeness in the face of the wheedling of the lord of the manor: always happy to receive the Army, bravest of men, my house is your house, especially if you can eat with a fork, surely no need for the rank and file to be loose in the premises, perhaps we might come to some arrangement?

Sir Anthony Astbury was everything the Captain hated too, and for the same reasons.

He knew the type. Bit of genteel service when the going had been good, retired hurt once it was clear that the King’s was a lost cause. Paid his fine to hang on to the estate, God bless Parliament and now please leave me in peace. He could afford to lose some linen and trinkets.

Then two younger women – daughters? – edging in in the wake of the last of his scavengers. The daughters were rather fine, weren’t they now? One was sort of stern-looking, and the other was sort of wild – bit upset, perhaps. He hoped there hadn’t been anything too nasty. The good Lord knew it was hardly surprising: keep a man in camp for months on end with nothing but small beer and the sad old whores who followed the army, brittle cackling boisterousness and eight kinds of pox, and why wouldn’t he go a little moon-crazy when he saw something like this – something so lovely and so fresh, and frankly just so damned
clean
? Had to be careful, though. A village tart found face-down in a ditch didn’t seem to register with anyone now, but the gentry tended to complain when their women got knocked around, and complaints would find their way sure as the sun back to him.

That stern one, now. Probably a bit stuck-up, she was, and that was fine; might like to look after a man. Bet she’d run a tight home. And hidden fires inside, perhaps.

The old man was still whining on. Been most devoted in his just obligations to the state, Sir Somebody Somebody could surely vouch for me, paid up prompt and regular.
Bet you did, too: all above board and please go away with your dirty little war.
Sir Anthony Astbury wouldn’t be fighting six men for a licey mattress in a tavern tonight.

And now these two London men had appeared. Sombre, black-coated men; something to do with checking or collecting the fines of delinquent Royalists like Astbury.

Proper puritan clerks, the pair of them; quiet and superior. The old man had stopped talking at last, and was watching him anxiously. Just a faint calculating arrogance in the eyes. 

The Captain wrestled wearily with his bitterness.
Lord, what wouldn’t I give for a warm companionable bed?
‘Sir, these few supplies we have commandeered are deemed essential for the functioning of the Army; you’ll be given tickets of receipt as usual.’
And much good will they do you.
He heard the words falling from him as if from a distance. The old man was about to interrupt again. ‘This land is at war! Rebels are up in half the counties of England. Your little luxuries are less important than the survival of the state.’

That had stung. ‘Luxuries?’ The sneer was emerging onto the face again. ‘How—’

‘And I’ll gladly get your friend in London to come and explain that to you. Or Oliver Cromwell himself, how would you like that?’

Lord, I am so weary.

Unnoticed, one of the London men was standing beside him. The voice was a low firm murmur, inaudible to the others. ‘Captain, if we need General Cromwell, I’m sure I could pass a message onward when I’m in London.’ The Captain started to scowl.
You smug, miserab—
But there was no attempt at superiority in the face of the man in black. The large eyes looked rather sad. ‘Otherwise, perhaps we’ll leave the politics for today. I don’t envy you, having to settle these men somewhere tonight. And they should have had enough time with the silverware now.’

The Captain managed a heavy smile, nodded slowly. He glanced briefly at the old man, a curt nod to him, and turned and left.

The man in black waited, still, listened to the door close. A solemn nod to the two women, and then he stepped towards Sir Anthony Astbury. But for a moment his glance snapped back to the younger woman, stunned and wild and glaring at him.

Night brought a brief illusion of security to Astbury House. Nothing could be seen from the windows, not even the ominous trees. For a moment, instinctively, Rachel Astbury felt that this smaller existence, behind its locks and bars, was warmer and safer. But the night brought the wind, roaming the estate in the darkness, and stirred up faint animal noises somewhere close by, and the endless creaking of the doors and timbers of the house. In the darkness the family was smaller, and more alone, and the threat outside vaster and less knowable.

After the departure of the soldiers, and the two men from London, her father had at first contrived a little triumphalism. But his pretence at having seen off the intrusions of the world was as transparent to himself as to his daughters and servants, and he quickly relapsed into peevishness. A silent supper, and a brusque prayer, and her father had gone to his study. By some unspoken agreement, and knowing that he would not want company, his two daughters followed him regardless. They sat out of his eye-line, very close together, Mary reading and Rachel sewing.

Astbury House was the tiniest fragments of light and sound in the darkness. Scattered candles in gloomy rooms; the rhythmic sweep of pages under Mary’s fingers, and the restless rustling of papers under her father’s; occasionally the closing of a door by a servant somewhere else in the building. Outside the wind, and the patrolling birds. If the house could hold its breath, maybe it might not be noticed.

Three mighty hammerings barked into the gloom. The front door; and the knocking was still echoing around the house as Anthony Astbury’s head reared up wild-eyed.

Perhaps it had been a trick of each of their imaginations. A clumsy servant. A thunderstorm. A heart.

For a moment Astbury House perched in silence.

Two more great slams at the door, and they all three flinched.

Anthony Astbury had to go. A servant would open the door, but he had to be there. Dragging his brittle courage from its hiding places, Astbury stood and walked on uncomfortable feet to the study door and so into the hall. He threw one glance at his daughters as he passed, accusing them of forcing him to confront the limits of himself.

Rachel found that her fists were locked tight, the material clenched to a rag in them.
I do not know how long I can live like this.
She looked up, and found Mary watching her.

‘I have to see.’ 

Mary nodded. They both stood. By the time they reached the door between study and hall, their father and one of the servants were at the front door, each with a lantern. The two old faces shone and shadowed as they moved.

Then the servant was grappling with the bolts. They heard the hard metal reports as the house loosened its armour, and there was a sudden rush of noise as the storm charged in through the door, throwing the servant back against the wall still clinging to the latch. The wind buffeted back and forth on the doorstep, and they saw their father peering into the night.

After a wary moment, he ventured a step forward, and lifted the lantern higher.

‘Great God!’ he said, and the words rang shrill into the storm. ‘Is it you?’

Any reply from whoever was hidden outside was lost in the noise, but then a shadow had stepped forward over the doorstep and was helping the servant shoulder the door closed. A hat, a broad back, high boots flickered in the lantern light. Suddenly the roar of the storm was silenced with the door’s slam and the falling latch. The bolts slid heavily back into place.

The shadowed stranger had said something else, and the Astbury sisters saw their father’s face turn to them and say with unnecessary volume, ‘We’d better talk in my study.’

They understood, and stepped quickly forwards into the hall and aside.

At last they saw the stranger, as Anthony Astbury led him past them and into the study. A tall man – taller than their father, anyway, and broad with it. An older man, surely; but his physical strength and straight back made him younger. Thick grey hair, as far as they could guess in the distorting glow of the lantern, and the face was ancient and hard.

The stranger was like an old rock, and as he passed them pressed flat against the hall panelling he looked at each of the sisters with unconcealed interest. There was something alive in the dark eyes and the mouth, though they gave no hint of a smile.