The Notorious Marquis of Wickerley Page 7

  "I'm afraid the pox has more or less cleared."

  "I doubt God would be so cruel, but I'm sure we can find some tainted harlot around here somewhere we can stick in your cell with you, ensure you get another dose. But then why bother? We have more effective ways of dealing with people like you, my lord."

  Symon refused to cower. It didn't matter what he did; they would torture him anyway, unless he confessed to a slew of treason charges, in which case, he would soon be out on the gallows getting his neck stretched.

  "Now let's talk about the events in Truro."

  "I don't live in Truro," Symon answered the same enquiry he'd been asked before, more times than he liked to recall.

  "But we know you were there on the fourth of October. You were seen."

  "I don't recall."

  A small vice clamped down on his finger and Symon bit his teeth together to keep the anticipation of pain at bay. He felt the skin give to the small metal pike that was driving down on his left forefinger. Enough pressure and the bone would break, but Oxford and his men liked to draw the festivities out as long as possible.

  "You saw Lord Grering there, did you not?"

  "I have no recollection," Symon said with a smile. "I do tend to spend most of my life inebriated." Oxford's man twisted the vice a little further and pain speared up Symon's arm.

  Oxford came closer and crouched down next to his chair, in an act that simulated intimacy between them. "We know full well that these men are plotting against Parliament, lending support to the tyrant the Scots are choking on." By tyrant he meant the new king, the son who now sought to step into his father's throne. The boy had been young the last time Symon had seen him, and he'd been taken across to France shortly after.

  "Then maybe this is a discussion you should have with them." Symon's breath was coming out in short bursts as the pain flared like a living beast in his mind, tearing into him.

  "I would, but I must find them first. But don't worry, I know they are in Flanders and I have sent men to retrieve them. But there they are, plotting away like stupid scullery maids gossiping."

  "It is a weak man who fears a gossiping servant," Symon said and was rewarded with a backhanded strike, which made his ears ring. He tasted blood in his mouth, and then the pain of the vice being turned another revolution. The pressure on his bone was growing fiercely. "I should just string you up and be done with you. Not even the king could tolerate your presence."

  "But you assume Lord Grering would place his trust in me? He certainly wouldn't place his daughter or wife in my presence, I can assure you."

  "So you have been visiting?"

  "I was speaking rhetorically."

  Oxford considered him as he paced in front of the chair in this one-sided game. "So you were at Grering's house around the time in question."

  "I was not."

  "Lies," the man yelled sharply and nodded to the torturer, who turned the vice another turn. The bone in his finger cracked and blinding pain enveloped every part of his consciousness. "Who else was there?" he yelled, forcing his head up with a harsh fist in Symon’s hair, while Symon struggled to get air into his lungs.

  Symon refused to answer. He had indeed been there that night, guardedly included in a group of the most powerful landowners in northwestern Cornwall. "I am hardly fit to be admitted to the gentry's parlors, am I?" he said with a grin, spitting blood on the floor. He was sure the man had loosened one of his teeth in his violent zeal. But he knew the only good outcome from this would be saving someone else, because there was never any question of saving himself. Perhaps it was his sheer stubbornness that refused to let him co-operate with these men, even if it would save himself a great deal of pain before his death, but then if he folded, his death would only come sooner.

  "Yes, you are universally despised, I admit. I would have thought someone like you would jump at the chance of redemption, if not for yourself, in the eyes of your peers and your family, before your demise. You appear to be running out of chances for restitution." The man was completely assured that Symon would relent and incriminate himself, admit to treason, that there wasn't the slightest possibility they would deem him innocent.

  This was a trick statement. If he said there would be no redemption in betraying his countrymen, he would firmly announce himself as a royalist. Not that he would go the other way and profess what these men had done had any legitimacy. "Ignorance is a cross we must all bear."

  "But the people in their wisdom have spoken."

  Another trap—an enticement to speak, to rant at how absurdly they had misused the people in this whole debacle. Oxford wasn't stupid, although fanatic in his views. There was nothing so dangerous as an intelligent fanatic, with the puritans’ firm belief they were right. This man thoroughly believed in Symon's guilt and their sessions would only keep going until one of them broke. Symon would do as much as he could to ensure it wasn't him. If nothing else, his life was reduced to denying this man.

  They were too fearful of revolt to let him leave, intent on removing any threat—even as vague as his potential for garnering the hearts of the people. Most had fled and had their estates confiscated in the process, but others were plotting against parliament, set to help the rightful king return to power. Symon knew of the plots—he'd been approached to help if for no reason other than his coastal location, able to receive a king and an army onto English shores.

  *

  Dirt caked around Cecily's shoes. They weren't her shoes. She'd never owned such sturdy shoes and they were slightly too large. It was hard to walk and every part of her body ached as she led the horse, holding its reins, while Hapstill manned the plow. It was slow work and even she could tell they were doing a bad job of it—but it was getting done.

  Her dress would never recover, but a dress was a small price to pay to avoid a much larger price. And there was no one else to do it. Neither Jenkins nor the cook were physically capable, so the work for able-bodied fell to them. Cecily couldn't express her gratitude enough that Reverend Hapstill had insisted on contributing to the work as well. They had both moved into the manor. For some reason Cecily felt it was important for the manor to be occupied by family, even if her tie was tenuous in actuality. She was the Marquesa of Wickerley, and rightful occupant of the manor according to any law of this land.

  Looking over, she saw the farmhand and his son plowing a field further away. The work was getting done, even if they were still woefully understaffed. There were a few fields that they just wouldn't be able to sow this year, but some were better than none.

  The horse stepped with its large and powerful hooves and the drizzle kept the earth moist and their bodies soaked, as the till exposed rich, dark soil underneath. She had never felt less a gentle born woman than she did right then, and she wasn't entirely sure of her motives for doing this. On some level, she didn't care about the marquis and his family inheritance, but then she was also tied to his fortunes—even if he might never be released by Parliament. The family had broken entail for this property a while back, Jenkins had informed her, so the estate would belong to her if the marquis died. It felt uncharitable to say so, but she might in the long run be better off if he did. The thought sat uncomfortably in her mind. She had never wished anyone ill, and she wasn't prepared to wish the marquis' death because things would be much more favorable for herself if that eventuated.

  The mud and dirt of the fields had dried every part of her skin and her hands bled with blisters, unused to such toil. The childish part of her wanted to complain bitterly, but the reverend kept working in silence and she followed suit. The only thing that mattered now was that the taxes were paid. They might have precious little left over afterward, but that would be a burden she would have to worry about when she got there. In the past, although her father was not the most responsible of men, she had never wanted for food, and now she had people who depended on her for their survival, as apparently the marquis fed a slew of widows, children and the odd invalid as well. There
was a community of people dotted around the estate that all, to some degree, depended on the estate. The New Model Army had stolen all the men and the promised wages that hadn't eventuated so the whole area was deeply impoverished, as was the vast majority of the entire country. Gouged out and emaciated by these relentless taxes to support the New Model Army, and now ramblings of a war with the Dutch to boot.

  The sun was starting to set and birds flew in the darkening sky, back toward their homes for the evening, as she, the reverend and the horse would do eventually, but not yet. They would keep going for a few hours after dark, lit by one of the carriage torches. It wasn't much to go on, but it was enough to roughly follow the till lines.

  Every part of her was muddy when she got back and cook had been good enough to heat water for a bath. It was the one consolation she received for the hard work she had to endure, and it was necessary to ease all the aches from her body, because she had to get up in the morning and do the same thing all over again. And when the plowing was done, the sowing would start, then the weeding—relentless weeding until the barley was tall enough to defeat the intruders.

  The wind had picked up as it seemed to do in the evenings and it now howled its discontent around the windows. She lay immersed in the hot water, a fire crackling in the hearth. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine summers past when there had been no troubles in her mind other than father returning in a drunken state and knocking something over, or finding trouble somewhere on the way home. At the time, she had thought her burdens heavy.

  *

  Cecily was physically exhausted by the time the fields were plowed and sown. She had a knot in her shoulder that wouldn't relent and she feared it was permanent. But the work didn't stop. There was weeding every day and a thousand other things to do around the estate—things the estate manager normally saw to. Each day a new problem was presented to her and some she just had to ignore. There was also seaweed gathering to be done, as much as possible, because it fed the fields and kept the weeds low. A viler substance she had never known. It stunk and the slimy tendrils had to be gathered with a great hook.

  But summer eventually came and the pace slowed. There had been little news of the marquis. The army had crushed a rebellion in Oxfordshire and England had been pronounced a commonwealth, whatever that meant. The reverend heard these things in the village, where he was still barred from the church.

  "We have a rider approaching," Hapstill broke into her thoughts as Cecily sat in the study, trying to tackle the marquis' accounts.

  Panic seared through her in an instance. "Just one?"

  "Only one."

  If there weren't soldiers, it couldn't be that bad. She moved over to the window and saw Mr. Tarkin approaching. "It is the marquis' man of affairs."

  "I will leave, then, unless you have need of me."

  "I should be fine," Cecily said with a smile, wondering if that was true, if Tarkin would bring ill news to make their lives harder. Hapstill retreated upstairs to his room while Jenkins saw to their arriving guest. At least her dress was clean, if not looking a bit threadbare these days.

  * * *

  Chapter 13:

  * * *

  He dreamt more than woke, the never-ending pain in his chest returning whenever he emerged out of unconsciousness. Sleep was the only escape and it was slowly taking over his whole existence. He knew it didn't bode well, but it also meant relief from the pain and the raw, wracking cough. It was impossible to keep track of time, but he knew summer was here, or it might have passed. He'd seen the tiny patch of blue sky through the open cell window. Not that it was any warmer in there. The stones greedily sucked any heat into themselves.

  It wouldn't be long now that he lived. At least he'd beaten Captain Oxford, who eventually relented in exasperation. Symon's fingers had even started healing. In the beginning, he'd taken effort to set them as well as he could, but it didn't matter now.

  One day the dreams just wouldn't stop and he'd never wake, passing away here, forgotten by everyone outside. There was no one to mourn his passing, not that it mattered.

  So easily he slid from waking to dream, almost unnoticed.

  *

  The sun shone warmly as Cecily walked through the healthy barley stalks, their whiskers tickling her fingers. It looked like a field of gold, and it was in some sense—the future of the estate. The wind never quite died down, but it was merely cool now.

  She still lamented the unmanaged fields, taken by weeds, and she sighed as she looked back at the manor, which even the summer weather couldn't brighten.

  The marquis' man of business had just left, after informing her that the marquis' health was failing. Cecily frowned. The internal scars within his body, left behind by the pox and the mercury to rid it, made him ill capable of dealing with the tribulations of Newgate prison. His size made him look strong, but weakness riddled his body, taking over in adversity.

  This all meant that Wickerley manor and the estate would be hers soon. And that she would be free to remarry—even Reverend Hapstill, if she chose. Although grateful for his efforts and company, she wasn't enamored with him, but he would make a steadfast and reliable husband—as opposed to the cantankerous and mysterious man she had wed.

  She barely knew this man who lay dying in London. It didn't sit right. Even the man of business had more or less given up on him, more interested in telling her what they needed to do upon the marquis' death. He wasn't dead yet. There was a part of her that felt she needed to show loyalty to this man, for the fact that he was her husband, and no one else was now trying.

  It would just be so easy to forget him and turn her mind to the future, where this estate was hers and she could try to manage it as best she could. She snorted. He'd won her in a card game and ended up giving his estate to her, his own family legacy ending.

  The weight of it all pressed heavily on her. She should just turn her mind away from it, to the hundred things that needed doing around the estate, but she couldn't.

  The reverend was approaching, wading through the barley stalks. "It looks good," he said. "Another month or so and it's ready for harvesting."

  "Provided the weather doesn't turn on us."

  "God will be merciful," he said with a smile and Cecily envied his faith.

  Crossing her arms, she sighed again.

  "What preys on your mind?" he asked.

  "The marquis' health is deteriorating."

  "I heard."

  Cecily smiled. Even a private conversation in the study was heard by everyone in the manor. She shouldn't be surprised. News was a precious commodity out here at land's end.

  "I think I must try to do something for him," she said, tearing the head of a barley stalk. "He is my husband and he's…"

  "There is very little you can do. He has been charged with treason."

  "But never tried."

  "And it might be in vain, even if you could, by some chance, secure his release."

  "I know, but I can't just do nothing. It isn't right." Even as she said it, she tried to think of the return to the tense and awkward existence she'd had when the marquis had been in residence. It had been untenable, but her comfort was not a good enough reason to turn her back on this man. "He is my husband." That had to mean something, even if she couldn't tolerate his presence. "I have to do something—try."

  "You must do as your conscience dictates, but the roads are dangerous. Do you want me to go with you?"

  "No, stay here. Someone needs to be here to see over the estate. We cannot afford for something to go wrong."

  *

  The roads were fairly quiet as she drove northward to Bristol, where Cromwell was apparently heading, ready to sail for Ireland. No one else could secure his release. It had become increasingly apparent that the only true authority in England now was this man, Oliver Cromwell. And if there was any one to turn to for a pardon, even if never charged, it would be him.

  Most likely he wouldn't see her, but it was the onl
y course of action she could take—beseech an audience.

  She was taking one of the farm carts, which she had learned to drive proficiently enough. The reverend didn't like that she was heading out alone and unprotected on the lawless roads, but it had to be done. The marquis was a responsibility she couldn't shrug off.

  Bristol was brimming with soldiers and horses, and few paid her attention in her drab and functional clothes, most assuming her a farm girl, there to sell crops at market—something she wouldn't mind being just at the moment.

  Cecily had never seen so many animals in one place—goats, horses, cows and pigs, along with endless barrels. This is what it took to feed an army—more food than she had ever seen in one place.

  It was said the New Model Army was more disciplined than others, but the town looked a complete shambles.

  Asking a street seller, she learned that Cromwell had taken residence at the magistrate's house at the center of town, and the number of soldiers intensified as she got closer to the magistrate's stone house next to the main square. The roads had turned to mud in the square and it was hard to find a place to tie her horse, and she had to resort to paying a boy to manage the beast until her return.

  Cromwell’s receiving rooms were crowded with people waiting for an audience, or needing something from his officers. Some even had their farm animals with them.

  Making her way through the crowd, she found what looked like a scribe of some sort. "I need to speak to Mr. Cromwell."

  "As does everyone here," the man said sharply and turned away from her, rushing off.

  Cecily turned around and looked at the room full of gathered people. She couldn't just sit down and wait for someone to come see what she wanted. It would take days if someone even noticed her at all.

  There was a door everyone's eyes were on. That was where she needed to go, she determined. Perhaps she wasn't allowed to go in there, but she could plead ignorance until someone told her that.