“A Royal Encounter (Part Two)”

In Which Margaret Finds a King
 

 

At supper that night, my father told us to stay close to the house until the danger was past. Troops from Cromwell’s army were scouring the countryside in search of the renegade King, and we were not to place ourselves at risk by straying beyond the yard.

John’s eyes lit. “You mean the King is here?”

“I doubt it,” Father replied, “but he’s a wanted man so they must search everywhere and I won’t have my children running afoul of the Roundheads. Our position is precarious enough as it is.” He fixed me with a stern glare. “Have you tethered your pony properly?”

I nodded around a mouthful of pudding. I was tempted to ask what the King looked like, but thought I already knew. It was general knowledge that he was tall and lean with black hair and black eyes—a description which matched the servant Will perfectly.

“Do you think he’ll get away, Mama?” I asked as my mother tucked me into bed.

“Not if you’ve tethered him,” she replied.

“Not Pumpkin, Mama. I mean the King.”

She sighed. She looked tired. The war had been as hard on her as on anyone—it had fallen to her as the lady of the manor to comfort the women who had lost sons and husbands recruited on the King’s behalf. I think she felt guilty that her own son had been spared, and she wore the grief of others as penance for her good fortune. “I don’t know, Meg,” she said wearily. “In truth, I don’t see how he can escape.”

“But they’ll kill him if they find him.”

“Probably they will. It’s no concern of ours anymore. The war is won and we lost. There is nothing more we can do but save ourselves. Close your eyes now, and sweet dreams, my dear.” She bent over me and kissed my forehead.

I did not sleep. I could not. Young as I was, it seemed the country had been in turmoil for all of my life. I did not understand the purpose of men and the hardships they inflicted on the innocent in their pursuit of power. Despite the countless conversations I had overheard in the drawing room and at the dining table, I knew only that King Charles had been a good man and General Cromwell had murdered him in order to seize the throne of England. Even then, I was not sure what difference it made to my family. No one deigned to educate me on the matter. Not even my brother John. He was old enough to take part in adult discussion, and to be taken seriously, but I was a child and a girl to boot—I was expected to do as my elders bid me without question.

But I was beginning to question everything. I was beginning to wonder why the war had been fought at all, why the King had been beheaded and why the people who had supported his son could not be left in peace. The war was over, but fear ran in dark currents through the household, trickling unseen beneath the floorboards and seeping between the bricks. It permeated everything.

I woke later that night to a heightened tension that differed from the norm. Perhaps that was what had wakened me. There was movement in the house, but it was quiet, stealthy, secret movement as if something surreptitious was underway. I got up and went to the door, pressing my ear to the wood. There were voices on the other side: my parents taking pains to ensure that the children were asleep. “I’ll look in on John,” my mother said, “but I’m sure Meg is long gone.”

“I want to be sure,” Papa declared.

I bounded back to my bed and burrowed deep beneath the covers, my heart skipping with excitement. What was going on? Why were my parents so concerned that John and I be sound asleep?

The door clicked open and I heard my father’s step on the floor. He always walked softly, he was such a gentle soul and very fond of me. Under other circumstances, I would have felt free to sit up and ask what was happening. In this instance, however, I sensed the prudence of feigning sleep and had to will my heart to slow its pounding lest the quivering of the bedclothes betray me.

His big hand touched my shoulder through the blankets. Unable to stay still, I took the opportunity to give a languorous stretch and roll over. His hand lifted, then moved to stroke my hair from my forehead in a loving caress. “Dream on, my little sweetheart,” he murmured before he left.

I lay quiet for some moments afterward. The house was not silent but the sounds of activity were muted, coming from the lower floor and the kitchens. Then I heard a muffled bump that was so loud I jumped. At first I wondered if I had fallen asleep and started myself awake by dreaming it, then I heard it again, quieter this time but definitely overhead, removed from the bustle at the opposite end of the house.

Someone was in the attic. I was accustomed to hearing the servants up there in the daytime, but never at night. The narrow staircase was concealed by a door cut into the painting at the end of the corridor; I had climbed it myself many a time. There was nothing up there but old clothes and broken furniture. It was a great place to play—and a greater place to hide.

Barefoot in my shift, I cracked open the door of my room and peered into the hallway. The night sky was dark through the gallery windows. No candles burned to light the way of servants or family members. This part of the house was silent, set to sleep until daybreak. A quick peek through the glass and I saw a sentry pacing the yard below, keeping watch for unwelcome soldiers. It was a common enough post these days. I should have thought nothing of it, but my imagination had been aroused. There was something worth protecting in this house tonight. There was someone—and I knew who it was.

I ran on tiptoe down the hall to the portrait of my great-grandfather and felt in the dark for the doorknob. A heavy velvet drape hung just inside; I swept it out of my way and quietly clicked the door closed behind me. I went up the stone stairs, feeling cautiously with my toes for the next step, bracing myself with a hand on the wall, climbing toward the light. For there was light at the top, a light too dim to be seen from outside, but a light nonetheless. My heart beat faster with every step. He was here. I knew he was here. A few more steps and I saw him, his long frame cramped into a space too small to be comfortable, sitting beyond reach of the lone candle set to light his shadowy hiding place.

He was bent forward, rubbing his feet with his hands. They were the biggest feet I had ever seen and I wondered how on earth he found shoes to fit him. It turned out that this was as difficult a task as I imagined, for the offending footwear had been tossed to one side as if in pained exasperation. This brief exhibition of temper had probably accounted for the noise I had heard below. Blankets and a pillow were stacked nearby, with a bottle of my father’s best wine. They knew, then. My parents knew that this was King Charles.

“Were the Roundheads waiting at Bristol?” I asked.

He startled, his face tense as his head came up with a jerk. On seeing me, a child in her nightgown, his shoulders relaxed and he offered a smile weakened by fatigue. “Do you even know what a Roundhead is?” he inquired.

“Of course I do. They’re the men who want to kill you.”

He looked suddenly wary, as if uncertain whether my innocent tongue could be trusted with the truth of his identity. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“You woke me up when you threw your shoes in the corner.” I went and picked one up in my hands. It was poorly made and worn at the sides, as if his foot had tried to hatch out of it. “Is this the best you could do?” I asked him.

“I fear so,” he sighed. “If I ever find myself back in God’s good graces, I swear I will never be so tortured by a pair of shoes again. What’s your name, my dear?”

“Margaret.”

“Well, Margaret, this is no fit place for a lady.”

“It’s no fit place for a King, either.”

He chuckled softly. The sound was strangely comforting in this precarious circumstance. I took it a sign that he accepted my knowledge of who he was. “For this King, my dear, any safe place is a fit place.”

I sat beside him in the shadow. He was big but not bulky; rather than feeling dwarfed by his size, I felt dainty. “Are you not afraid that they’ll catch you?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

He glanced down at me, a faint smile playing about the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps a little,” he allowed, though more for my benefit than because it was true. “I am more afraid for your parents than for myself. I do understand the danger my presence has brought to their home and their family.”

“It’s only dangerous if the army finds you here, and they won’t. We won’t let them.”

He leaned back against the wall, slumping a little to give himself an inch of space above his head.

“How did you get so tall?” I asked.

“Two of my grandparents were tall. How did you get so pretty?”

I giggled. “I’m not pretty.”

“I think you are. I thought so when I saw you in the wood this afternoon. Did you find your pony?”

“Yes. My brother found him. Would you like to see him? He’s tethered in the stable.”

“I would, my dear, but I can’t this time. I must stay here, out of sight, and you must go back to your bed before someone discovers you gone.”

“I want to stay here with you.”

“That’s commendable, Margaret, but not practical. Do as I say, now, and off to bed with you.”

I regarded him through narrowed eyes. “You don’t sound like a King,” I told him. “You sound like my father.”

He laughed aloud at that, stifling the outburst at the last moment with one hand.

I really did want to stay with him. I wanted to share his meagre blankets and single thin pillow with him, to sleep by his side and take warmth from his body. For the first time in my life, the tension that haunted our house had dissipated and I knew that he was the cause. He would have to go in the morning, of course, but if I could have these few short hours alone with him, I would be content.

“Won’t you let me stay?” I pleaded, putting on my best, most beguiling face in hopes that he might be persuaded to change his mind as my father often was.

He smiled down at me, his black eyes sparkling. He took my face in his hands and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead. “Not this time, my dear,” he murmured. “Not this time.”

 

copyright 1999 Ruth R. Greig