The Rebel’s Daughter Read online

  The Rebel’s Daughter

  Title Page

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  The Woulfes of Loxsbeare, Book 1

  The Rebel’s Daughter

  By Anita Seymour

  ISBN: 978-1-77145-291-5

  Copyright 2014 by Anita Seymour

  Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2014

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

  Dedication:

  To the Historical Fiction Critique Group for their invaluable help in telling Helena’s story.

  Also, a special thanks to my editor Tanja Cilla who applied her magic duster

  Preface

  In 1675, a private Whig society met at rooms in the King’s Head Inn, Chancery Lane. They called themselves the Green Ribbon Club. On special days their votaries wore ribbons in their hats, of “Leveller Green”. #

  Their patron, James Scott, 1st Duke of Monmouth, the eldest illegitimate son of King Charles II, was a regular visitor. He wore “the green”, and they honoured him by tilting their hats and brims over one eye in the “Monmouth Cock”, toasting him openly as Prince of Wales.

  The members swaggered across the cobblestones of Whitehall, talking of the days when “Jemmy” travelled through the West of England, “dancing the green” and “carrying of the Plate”

  Toasts were drunk to “Bless his Majesty and confound the Duke of York”, with little fear of the pillory or Newgate prison. Monmouth’s popularity was high, particularly in the West Country, with its mines and rich woollen trade, owned by non-conformists who had been severely punished for their dissent.

  The June 11, 1685 was known as the first of the Duking Days: called so because that was the day Monmouth sailed into Lyme Bay, accompanied by eighty-one hopeful men.

  His aim was to wrest the British crown from his uncle, James II, the newly crowned king, and within days, six thousand West Countrymen had rallied to his cause. Monmouth was declared “King” in Taunton market place in front of an enthusiastic crowd. But his army was poorly armed and badly disciplined, and many of the promised gentry did not arrive to support him.

  In retaliation, James II sent his troops to the West under Lord Feversham, with John Churchill as Second-in-Command.

  On the night of July 5, Monmouth launched a surprise attack on the royal army, on marshland outside Bridgwater, in Somerset.

  The Battle of Sedgemoor was the last encounter ever fought on English soil.

  Author’s Note

  As part of my research for this book, I visited the Blake Museum in Bridgwater, which contains memorabilia of the Duke of Monmouth and the Battle of Sedgemoor.

  A guide sat in a corner of the room, dressed in the uniform of Monmouth’s army and when I identified, correctly, a uniform of one of “Kirk's Lambs” on display, the guide stared at me levelly and said,

  “We don’t talk “bout him round “ere.”

  They have long memories in Somerset.

  # Salute to Thomas Rainborough, a popular Leveller leader and sailor, murdered in 1648

  * 1675 the Duke of Monmouth, an excellent rider and sportsman, had carried off the international plate at the St Germain horse race.

  Chapter 1

  Loxsbeare, Exeter, June 1685

  Helena clung to the hanging strap of the bulky wooden carriage as it clattered down St David’s Hill and took a stomach-lurching turn into Northgate Street.

  “Make way there!” the haughty footmen clinging to the rear yelled at a driver of a slow-moving cart who rounded the corner into their path. The journeyman’s face, twisted into a snarl, flashed by the window as he hauled his barrow onto the verge, narrowly avoiding a collision.

  Helena flinched at the man’s distorted features, though she doubted his bad temper was directed at her. However, recent events had sharpened her perception of disrespect, and she expected less than perfect manners from strangers these days. Bayle sat opposite beside her mother, dwarfing her younger brother Henry, who would have surely fidgeted more had there been room.

  Their manservant did not usually attend church with the family, though that morning his insistence was accepted by her mother without comment.

  Nathan Bayle had been part of Helena’s life forever. “Ask Bayle.” was the watchword at Loxsbeare, where house servants and estate staff alike called him Master Bayle, whether he was within earshot or not. Only her father ever called him Nathan.

  Despite his imposing size, he was a gentle soul, with wavy brown hair slicked back from a high, flat forehead, and expressive brown eyes. His mention of their needing protection puzzled Helena. Or did the entire city know Sir Jonathan Woulfe had gone to join the Duke of Monmouth? Even so, surely there were those among them who would applaud him?

  The aromas of hot leather and horses, sunbaked grass and starched linen within that confined space made Helena queasy. Her mother sat, silent and upright, her delicate features turned toward the window. She kept her face averted, but Helena sensed her unease as she tugged repeatedly at a lace lappet dangling from her headdress.

  Exeter sported few private carriages, therefore the knot of curious onlookers who watched them roll to a halt on the cobbles outside St Mary Arches Church was little cause for concern.

  Bayle did not wait for the footman to let down the wooden step, but leapt onto the ground in one fluid movement. His hand reached back to help the other occupants down.

  Helena nodded in greeting to several of their acquaintances at the lytch gate, though, unusually, no one acknowledged her. Instead, self-conscious or scornful eyes raked her as they entered through the church door. A woman started forward, a hand raised in greeting, but at her husband’s shake of his head, she hesitated and returned to his side.

  Others made no pretense of their revulsion, and hurried inside, hushing children who chattered and pointed.

  Seated in the family pew at the front, her mother sat stoically, her gaze fixed on the altar, feigning unawareness of curious eyes, or low murmurings from adjacent pews.

  “Let them whisper and gossip,” Helena muttered under her breath. She was proud that her menfolk had stood up for their principles and joined the Duke’s cause, although she had not slept a full night since they had left for Lyme two weeks before.

  Before the service began, the Minister, a humourless man with a weak chin, paused before the altar. “I have been instructed,” he said, swallowing, “to read a pronouncement issued by his Majesty.” His myopic eyes flicked to the figure of the magistrate who hovered in the transept.

  “Didn’t he read a declaration last week?” Henry asked, sotto voce.

  “That one was Monmouth’s,” Helena said out of the corner of her mouth. “The one he read at Taunton saying he was the rightful king.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said, louder. “F
ather said Monmouth didn’t seek the throne.”

  “Hush!” Helena nudged him, deflecting a scowl from their mother.

  Trisk coughed, and began reading from a rolled parchment. “His Majesty King James decrees that his nephew, James Scott, Duke of Monmouth, and all his, adherents, abettors and advisers are traitors and rebels.”

  As the words reverberated round the church, rage swept through Helena’s veins. Traitors? How dare this insipid cleric call Sir Jonathan Woulfe such a thing? Rebels indeed! Didn’t he realize Monmouth protected the very church where Triske condemned his loyalty?

  The minister reached the end of his short speech. After a nod from the magistrate, he commanded the congregation kneel in prayer. There was the shuffle of feet and the odd self-conscious cough.

  Only self-righteous anger sustained Helena through the rest of the interminable service, aware as she was of the whispers and hard looks thrown their way.

  Before the last notes of the choristers trailed away, her mother rose abruptly and swept back down the aisle.

  Staying close to her skirts. Helena followed, looking neither right nor left, drawn by the shaft of sunlight thrown onto the flagstones by the open church door.

  A young friend of Hendry’s started forward from the last pew, his face alight with greeting. A male hand clamped down on the boy’s shoulder and after a brief, fierce exchange, his father guided him away.

  Helena narrowed her eyes at the man, angry for Henry, who had harmed no one. Was this what they were to expect from townsfolk who relied on the wool trade provided by Sir Jonathan Woulfe? Were it not for him, where would they find the food for their families, and the clothes on their backs?

  Her mother paused to acknowledge Master Triske at the church door, but did not linger to chatter with friends, as was her usual custom. Instead, she walked rapidly back along the path, past a glowering Lord Blanden and his sneering wife, Lady Maude.

  The Blandens owned an ancient manor at the top of St David’s Hill, and though it had been built before that of the Woulfes, possessed a less noble heritage. According to Helena’s father, the respect of the city’s citizens had so far eluded the Blandens, a fact which still rankled.

  On her seventeenth birthday, Helena had made no objection when her family announced she would be betrothed to their son. She liked Martyn well enough, though she had hoped to feel something other than brotherly affection for the man destined to be her husband.

  That her father granted her a generous portion, commensurate with the Woulfe name, went some way to igniting her enthusiasm. Dazzled by his generosity, she had moved through a haze of over-indulgence, exhilarated to be the centre of so much attention.

  Despite the heat of the churchyard, Helena shivered at the memory of the morning, in the previous December, when Martyn fell ill during a visit to Loxsbeare. His manservant had carried him to his horse and bore him away before Helena could bid a proper farewell.

  In the days that followed, her enquiries as to his well-being were deflected with vague responses, until a messenger arrived from Blanden Manor to tell them Martyn was dead.

  Relieved the marriage would not go ahead, guilt made Helena exaggerate her tears.

  Lord Blandon had appeared more frustrated than grief-stricken, an observation made by her mother, who claimed he had instigated the betrothal so he might bask in the reflected glory of the Woulfes” reputation.

  Recalling her mother’s scorn, Helena hurried through the sun-filled churchyard, conscious of Blandness sharp eyes boring into her back, all the way to the carriage.

  “What do you suppose he wants?” Henry cocked his chin at the black-garbed City Magistrate, who strode grim-faced down the path in their direction, a hand raised to command their attention.

  Bayle rapped the roof smartly and the vehicle lurched into Fore Street, leaving the Magistrate standing in the middle of the road, scowling.

  “His duty can wait a little longer,” Bayle muttered.

  Helena gave him a thin smile, unable to bring herself to ask what that duty might be.

  The carriage rumbled beneath the stone gatehouse over the north gate and climbed the steep Longbrook, the precarious sway forcing Helena to hang on to the strap over the door, to prevent colliding with her brother.

  Henry remained silent during the short but oppressive journey home, his chin propped in one hand, his elbow on the sill. He would never complain of his treatment at the church, though Helena knew he felt the rejection keenly. She pouted and blew air upwards creating a breeze that lifted the “favorites” at her temples. She would be glad to get out of this stifling coach, albeit suspecting the rest of their Sunday would be no more restful.

  * * *

  Helena strolled the lawn in the garden, tearing off leaves from the thick hedge, only to drop them at her feet as she walked. Her mother relaxed on a bench piled with cushions set against the garden wall, while their steward Lumm played a game of ring taw with Henry.

  “Shouldn’t that game be played on a hard surface, and standing up, Henry?” Helena asked, irritated by Lummis attitude. Their steward would never have lounged on the grass so casually in her father’s company. His shirt lay open at the neck and he had removed his cravat. Even the buttons on his jerkin were undone.

  “It’s too hot to go racing about,” Henry answered. “Besides, I’m winning.” His marble hit Lummis with a crack and sent it out of the makeshift circle of stones they had arranged on the grass.

  Defeated, Helena turned away, waving her feather fan lazily in front of her face, the fronds catching on her damp skin. The heavy fragrance from the overblown eglantine blooms clinging to the wall threatened to give her a headache. A dribble of sweat trickled between her shoulders, and her skirt clung to the back of her legs. A housemaid appeared from the rear kitchen door carrying a pewter tray on which were a jug and goblets. She crossed the lawn and set it down on the stone table between the three curved stone benches like a miniature amphitheatre.

  “Thank you, Milly,” Helena said, eying the tray. “I thought my tongue would shrivel up in this heat.”

  “Pity you can’t sweeten it a little too.” Henry laughed at his own joke. Lumm punched his arm playfully.

  Helena swallowed her sharp retort, suddenly aware she had been brittle, and maybe snappish, lately. Who could blame her? With nothing to do but household chores best fit for servants, and waiting for news, no wonder she was bad-tempered.

  A window on the floor above opened. A hand appeared, waved a white cloth, then pulled the window shut again with a bang.

  “I wonder where Father is now?” Helena asked no one in particular.

  “Seeing off King James” men, I expect,” Henry said. Teeth gritted, he spun his marble as he threw, sending Lummis into the longer grass. The steward groaned, and Lady Elizabeth clapped politely.

  Helena caught her brother’s set jaw, something no one else appeared to notice. He was almost sixteen, hardly a child any more. Yet their father had almost laughed when Henry asked to go with him to Lyme.

  For weeks beforehand, Father and Uncle Ned had shut themselves up for hours with a succession of anonymous visitors he forbade anyone to see, much less ask about.

  Helena had tried to listen at the door once, but heard only a low murmur of male voices, the chink of glass on glass, and an occasional short laugh. When the distinctive sound of a chair being scraped back had threatened discovery, she had turned on her heels to flee, barging straight into Lumm.

  Strong hands had closed on her upper arms, and his eyes had danced with amusement. “I beg your pardon, Mistress.”

  Her thoughts raced in search of a credible reason for her being crouched outside the door. She had squirmed from his grasp.

  Lummis smile remained when he had dropped his hands, as if what he held had no more effect on him than a sack of flour. “May I assist you, Mistress?” he had said with a smile, reaching past her for the handle.

  Mumbling that she had changed her mind, Helena had retreated. With
a mocking bow, he had disappeared into the room, blocking her view of the occupants.

  His triumphant laugh, followed by Hendry’s yell of protest, brought her back to the present with a jolt. She studied the steward from the corner of her eye, resentful of his easy smiles and the way his thick brown hair hung loose on his broad shoulders. Aaron should be here, laughing and playing marbles with Henry, not him.

  As if he sensed her thoughts, Lummis gaze slid toward her, and he gave a slow wink.

  Annoyed he had caught her looking at him, Helena turned away, just as Bayle hurried across the grass. His frantic face and the papers clutched in one hand confirmed her suspicion that his return to the city that day had little to do with obtaining supplies, as he had said. On a Sunday? Did he think her so easily fooled?

  Her mother’s face tensed at his fixed expression. “What news, Bayle?” she asked, pointing to the bench opposite her.

  He sketched a bow as he sat, then removed his wide-brimmed felt hat, leaving a ridge in his hair. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense!” Henry demanded, his tone reminiscent of their brother Aaron. “What does the newssheet say?”

  Bayle swiped a hand across his brow, smudging a white streak in the dust there.

  He offered Lady Elizabeth the newssheet, but she waved it away. “You may as well read it to us,” she said, sighing.

  “According to this, Lord Feversham and the King’s men have reached Somerset, my lady.” He waved the page instead, showing he knew the contents by heart.

  “Feversham is in command?” Lumm looked up in surprise. “Hah! John Churchill will feel slighted by that.” He handed Bayle a cup of elderflower water from the tray. “Being overlooked in favour of a Huguenot is a blatant insult.”

  Helena brought her cup to her lips, then grimaced, lowering it again and picking flecks of petals from the surface. Bands of Huguenots arrived in Exeter each day with stories of families in France being dragged apart, with children of Protestant parents forced to accept the Roman faith. She and her mother distributed alms to them sometimes, at St Olive’s, these days referred to as the French Church.