The Notorious Marquis of Wickerley

  The Notorious Marquis of Wickerley

  By Camille Oster

  Copyright 2015 Camille Oster

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the work of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Camille Oster – Author

  www.camilleoster.com

  http://www.facebook.com/pages/Camille-Oster/489718877729579

  @Camille_Oster

  Camille.osternz@gmail.com

  Chapter 1:

  * * *

  London, 1649

  "The king is dead," someone shouted down on the street, the noise reverberating through the wooden walls.

  Cecily held the needle above her embroidery, looking over a Mrs. Rawley. Her eyes shut, wishing this madness would turn out to be just a strange notion that would pass. A deep frown contracted her brow and her glowing red hair, apparently inherited from a mother she’d never known, spilled around her shoulders as she looked down. "Can it be true?"

  "I fear it must," Mrs. Rawley said with a strained sigh.

  The unthinkable had happened. The world had ended. After teetering on the edge for a while, now it had slid over into an abyss. They were without a monarch, which meant this madness wouldn’t end.

  Placing her embroidery aside, she moved over to the small window of their parlor, placing her fingers on the cold glass and looked down. People were walking down the street in somber strides, whispering amongst themselves, stern looks on their faces.

  "A tyrant is dead. The people will rule," a young man shouted, holding pamphlets in his hand. She didn't need to know what they said; she'd seen them before. "Freedom for the people."

  Carriages started rolling down the street, forcing the pamphleteer out of the way. People were escaping Whitehall after watching the execution. "How can this be well?"

  "It will never be well, child. Mayhem will descend."

  "Surely parliament must have some plan."

  “I doubt they’ve thought much further,” scoffed the woman who had been both her nursemaid and housekeeper. "Whatever plans they have, I fear disaster is unavoidable. You father will be home soon."

  No sooner had Mrs. Rawley said it, than Cecily saw her father making his way between carriages and Parliament’s soldiers. Apparently there had been a time when their family could afford their own carriage, but those days were long gone. Currently, they could hardly afford coal. The city suffered and hunger had spread into every quarter. So far they had kept it from their door, but she wasn't certain they could now that the king was dead and England lost.

  The outer door shut with her father's entrance and heavy footsteps moved up the stairs until his rotund figure appeared at the parlor door.

  "Is it true?" Cecily asked.

  "I saw it with my own eyes. Descended on his body like vultures they did too, seeking his blood for mementoes."

  Cecily frowned deeper. "What will happen now?"

  "There is no stopping them. They will root out any of the king's supporters and likely execute them, too. Not just that, but they have free rein now. They will arrest anyone who doesn't support their cause."

  "Are we in danger?"

  He didn't say anything, but his breath was heavy. "I think it is time you go."

  "Go where?" she said, standing up.

  "You must join your husband."

  Cecily rushed to her father and took his hand. "Please father, no."

  "I fear for you safety here."

  "The term in the contract is not up. I cannot go to him now."

  "I see no other alternative. London will not be safe. Whether the Army or the Levellers ransack the city, I do not know, but we are not safe. Some are saying the West Indies is where they are sending cavaliers." He moved away from her, pulling his hand out of hers. Cecily had never been able to beseech her father, even from his most senseless ideas.

  "Perhaps it will not be so bad. Things could calm down," she said hopefully.

  "You are a naïve girl." Pulling out his tobacco purse, he moved to the fire, the light looking ugly on his face. "It is time you join your husband. In Cornwall, you will be far away from here. The marquis will protect you. Likely they will confiscate our property here. We might be homeless before the week is out. I will organize a carriage for you."

  Her father left the room and Cecily turned to Mrs. Rawley. "You must speak to him, get him to change his mind."

  "It is pointless. His fears are real and at some point, you must fulfil the contract made with the Marquis of Wickerley."

  This contract had hung heavily over her head for the past six years, but she had at least a year to go until this marriage had to occur—over six months really, but it wasn't something she wanted to cut short. Marriage to the notorious Marquis of Wickerley had been a dark cloud looming on her future, the greatest betrayal her father had ever visited on her. Try as she might to get out of it, her father had stood firm—to this betrothal to a corrupt man in both body and soul. The worst of men, so incorrigible, he had been rejected by his own class, the king, and any other man of standing. Marriage to him had always meant exile from society for the rest of her days. Surely the dangers of this new world was better than the worst part of the old.

  The carriage was waiting outside, waiting to carry her to Cornwall. The streets were wilder today and there were rumors that the Army were arresting men of standing in the community. Levellers were cursing Cromwell's name, saying they had acted against their permit—trialing and executing the king. Shops were looted and fires burned somewhere nearby; she could smell it in the air. Perhaps her father was right.

  "Go now," her father said, his eyes darting down the street, trying to spy trouble coming for him. "It lightens my heart to see you free of this place. Cornwall is safe.” Free of this place, but ensconced in a new danger, that of her betrothed, and the disease he carried in his body—the source of his ultimate disgrace as he had infected the king's favorite mistress with the pox he carried.

  Seven years free of the disease had been the agreement, and the marquis had been desperate enough to find a wife amongst the lower quarters of the gentry. No one else wanted him. Only a truly desperate man would accept such a bargain for his daughter, but for some reason her father had agreed. Everyone knew of the Marquis of Wickerley and his lecherous ways. His behavior was a good part of the reason the Puritans hated the king and his court, even if the king had eventually been brought to agreeing with them in this particular regard.

  Cecily wrung her hands as the carriage took off, traveling through tumultuous streets, heading west. The carriage was stopped as soldiers threw the doors open, looking inside with harsh expressions. "Where are you going?" they demanded.

  "To my husband in Cornwall," she said, fear tightening her voice. She could feel them opening her truck at the back and rooting through it, probably enlightening her of possessions altogether. For years the New Model had taken what they wanted and they had an uninhibited remit now. One of the big issues that had brought them to this sorry state of affairs, with a dead king and a panicked people, was the Army's insistence on being immuned from any recourse from civilians, from all they'd stolen from or otherwise injured in the war and after.

  They eventually let her leave and she looked out the back window, seeing her trunk gone altogether. With a sigh, she put her gloved hand to her forehead, wishing everything would just stop. How had these men managed to tear the kingdom apart and create such chaos no one was sure they would ever recover from? All this for power. Even Cromwell, for all his godly idea
ls, this was all for power.

  The roads were disastrous, but the driver had been told to stop nowhere. Cecily had forced them to stop for toilette breaks, but they flatly refused to stop otherwise, driving through the night.

  The dark sky reflected her mood and it only seemed to grow darker. Bruised and battered, she reached the coast, where she could smell the salt of the sea as they traveled down what was the most desolate piece of coast she had ever seen. Since the marquis' exile, he had lived here, away from anyone, for over six years.

  *

  Dark had settled when she reached his estate, where a gruesome looking building stood in scant moonlight. Crumbling turrets pierced the sky, showing what must be a medieval structure. Nothing of it was inviting and there were few lights in the windows. No one might be home, she thought hopefully. In that case, the drivers would have to take her back to London with them.

  One of the men jumped off the carriage and pounded on the door. No one came and Cecily's hope soared, but eventually the faintest of light was seen moving across internal spaces. The large wooden door creaked open and men spoke by the light of a candle.

  It was late, too late for visitors, but one of the drivers came to the carriage door and opened it. "My lady," he said, waiting for her to disembark with a grim expression.

  An elderly man stood in the doorway, dressed in black. He wore a gray wig that looked as decrepit as the mansion, or castle, whatever it was; she couldn't see it clearly enough. Surely this wasn't him. He looked close to seventy.

  "Miss Alderman," the man said with a stiff, painful bow. The wind whipped around her dress as she stepped out of the carriage, tearing at her hair. "We were not expecting your company. I am Jenkins."

  "I am sorry to arrive unannounced." It felt strange to refer to the required etiquette as if she’d called in on a whim.

  "Nevermind. These are uncertain times and it is understandable that you should seek to escape the troubles." Not in her book—this would not be a choice she would make if she actually had one. The man led her in. He was clearly some form of manservant. "This way," he said and showed her inside, before telling the drivers where they could stable until morning.

  He pushed the door closed, using all his might. It looked so heavy Cecily wondered if she should offer assistance, but the man managed to shut the door, then lift a large wooden barrier to bar it.

  "Unfortunately, we have not had time to air a room for you, but an oversight we will address in the morning. This way. I will have cook bring you some refreshments."

  "Please don't bother yourself," she said even as her stomach rumbled from hunger. It was ridiculously late to wake the servants to attend her—unforgivable really. She should have taken in at an inn until morning. Surely the inns were respectable enough here.

  "This way," the man said, walking away, taking the light of his candle with him. "His grace is indisposed at the moment, but he will attend to you in the morning."

  "Thank you," she said, again feeling terrible for dragging everyone out of their beds without a word of warning.

  As Jenkins moved away, Cecily was left in darkness, but her eyes drew up along the large set of stairs where a form stood in the dark, highlighted by the moonlight in the window behind him. The wind howled somewhere in the building. It was clearly the form of a man and he stood silently before moving away into the darkness.

  Instinctively, she knew who he was, and he hadn't introduced himself—although that could be because he wasn't dressed appropriately. Somehow she didn't think so. From the outline of him, it looked like he wore a coat—she had seen the edges of it around his thighs, the moonlight making the edges of his form glow slightly in its pale, ghastly light.

  After a shuddering sigh, she closed her eyes, cursing her misfortune, or rather the misfortune her father, Cromwell and Parliament had forced on her.

  Chapter 2:

  * * *

  Cecily's room was musty and she left her coat on as she slept. But as the fire died, it grew too cold and she had to crawl under the heavy blankets. The wind still howled outside like an angry animal.

  All she wanted to do was go home, lock the door and shut them away from the madness outside, but here may not be a home to go to even now. The crowds might have ransacked the city in the last day for all she knew.

  As dawn finally broke, tears prickled the back of her eyes as she sat up and looked around the room. The wall hangings were faded green damask, which had probably been dark green at one point. There were tears along one of the walls, as if something sharp had been scraped along the surface. The furniture was mahogany and heavy. It looked old.

  Rising, she could see a coating of dust on every surface, making the room look slightly paler than it was. When she walked to the window she saw her own footsteps in the dust on the floor, then looked outside. The sea and the sky were gray, and it was hard to see where one stopped and the other began. There was a small garden below and beyond were cliffs dropping down to the sea. Grabbing the latch, she threw the windows open and wind rushed in. No point waiting, the room had to be aired. The icy wind immediately stole the sparse warmth out of the room. No one had come to tend to the fire in the morning, which suggested they were understaffed, or she'd been forgotten, but there was no point starting a fire now.

  Hunger ached in her belly, and she looked over at the scant leftover bread and cheese the cook, a Mrs. Morton, had brought up last night. There was nothing for it but to go downstairs.

  The wing where her room was situated appeared to be a fairly recent addition to the house, probably in the last one hundred years, but it had not been improved since then. As she walked toward the center and the large staircase, the structure changed into something much older, something that looked to at one point have been part of a keep. The interior structure reverted to stone and large, clumsy spaces made the furniture look small in comparison. The roof was supported by coarse wooden beams, losing the craftsmanship evident in the newer part of the building. Carpets lay on the stone floor and her heels echoed across the space when walking on the stone. The infernal wind still howled.

  The hall was large with a massive table stretching along it. The table looked as old as the structure around it and had been worn over time. Chips and dents ran along its length, probably from a time when men came to banquet with their battle swords.

  A fire crackled in the hearth and Cecily moved to it, letting her hands soak up its warmth. She should have brought her shawl; she hadn't thought of it.

  "I thought I heard you," a voice with a slight tremor said. Jenkins appeared around the doorway. "Are you ready to eat?"

  "I am."

  He indicated for her to sit. "Normally, you should sit at the other end, but since the fire is lit here, why don't you sit down close." He indicated the last chair on the left, not the one at the end of the table, which she assumed was the marquis'. "Is the marquis not joining us?"

  "He has gone out. Will return in the afternoon. He has asked me to inform you that the wedding ceremony will commence this afternoon."

  "Oh," Cecily said, blinking at this sudden news. So soon? The finality of it hit her, knowing that there would be no going back after the ceremony. She would belong to this man she had never met, other than being observed in the moonlight in the small hours last night. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she looked down into her lap where her fingers pinched each other. Obviously, she could not live in the marquis' house as an unmarried woman, so she fully understand the urgency. Normally, banns would have to be posted, but which of such rules applied these days? As their engagement had been six years since, there was hardly anyone to argue at this point.

  There was still the issue of the marquis' illness. The full time period to ensure he was free of the disease had not yet passed and if he insisted on his rights, he might infect her. It wasn't just that which twisted her insides, it was the whole process around his rights that violently lurched her stomach. Suddenly, she wasn't hungry at all. It was her duty to submit
to his will, even if it did harm to her. It felt so wrong, but she had no choice. She felt like crawling into a ball and blocking out all the unpleasantness.

  Desperately, she tried to think of a reason to delay the wedding, but obliging it was the sensible thing to do. She had no choices available to her, unable to survive a fortnight out there on her own. In these times of madness, she would probably find herself ravaged and murdered in some frozen ditch, left to be forgotten by the world. Her father would only return her here to complete the contract he had made. She wasn't aware what punishment would be metered out to her father if the contract failed, but knowing her father, there would likely be some.

  Jenkins returned with eggs, bread and meat, and a cup of posset for her. He didn't stay, citing he had much to do and left her to her breakfast. Tentatively, she picked at the food, but her stomach was in too much turmoil to take anything. This was to be her home—for the rest of her life—with this man who was reviled by most, especially so by the Puritans that had now taken control of the country.

  The house was completely silent, nothing was heard other than the occasional squawk of a seagull. She could see them flying outside the high window, distorted by the small squares of glass held together by lead.

  Eating as much as she could, she finished with her morning meal and made her way outside and into the garden contorted into unnatural shapes by the relentless wind. There were no flowers, just bushes—nothing delicate would survive this harsh location.

  The sea stretched out as far as the eye could see. A break in the clouds showed a spot of pale yellow streaks breaking the unending gray, although she had no way to determine how far away it was. The sea appeared endless, gray and undulating with white squalls created by the wind. There was a ship on the horizon, far away, and a light house stood along the coast, looking like a tiny cone of white in the distance.