“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

 

“A Royal Encounter (Part One)”

In Which Margaret Loses Her Pony ...

 

I remember well the day when Pumpkin disappeared. I was a week past my eighth birthday and the powers that be had blessed us with a fine end to summer. I had risen earlier than usual, hoping to get my ride in before breakfast. The pony had been a gift from my parents and, though we were still in the initial stages of bonding, I already adored him. How he got away was never fully determined; all that mattered at the time was the fact that he was not in the stable when I went to fetch him.

The hue and cry I raised as a result sent the house into a panic. We had few servants left; the young men had been lost to the war, fighting for the King at Worcester against the opposing—and victorious—forces of General Cromwell. Every day, my father worried that the property would be confiscated and himself thrown in irons. Hearing my screams from the yard, he had feared the worst and been relieved to discover that the cause of my distress was as simple as the disappearance of my pony. “We’ll find him, Meg,” he told me. “He can’t have gone far.”

My older brother saddled up to search the grounds. I spent the morning fretting and pacing the length of the gallery; when he returned at noon with no news, I burst into fresh tears and determined to set out on my own. “Go with her, John,” my mother said. “The last thing we need is for her to go missing as well.”

“It’s dangerous out there,” John replied, chewing on a chunk of crusty bread. “A troop of Roundheads have been sighted near the town.”

My parents exchanged dubious glances. “I don’t care!” I cried, reading their faces. “I must find Pumpkin!”

My mother shook her head. “Margaret,” she sighed, “you don’t understand.”

“No, Mama,” I retorted fiercely, “you don’t understand. I have to find Pumpkin. He might be hurt or frightened, and if the Roundheads find him, he’ll be in danger as well.”

“I’ll be watchful, Mother,” John promised. He flashed a reassuring smile at me. “Perhaps he’s headed back where he came from. We’ll try that next.”

I was devastated at the suggestion that my pony might prefer his previous owner over me. I talked endlessly of it to John as we rode together on his horse. John was fourteen and old enough to have joined the army had he not been lame in his left leg. He had cursed the infirmity even as our mother had praised God for it; he had wanted nothing more than to join the fight for the Prince of Wales. Only the Prince was not the Prince anymore; he was the King, and had been for the past two years. The battle fought at Worcester some weeks previous had been his last attempt at reclaiming the throne of England. The defeat had signalled the end of an era which my family would mourn for years to come.

It made no difference to me. All I cared about was Pumpkin.

“Let me down,” I said, wriggling in my brother’s arms. “If something spooked him, he might have run into the wood.”

“I’ve searched the wood, Meg. There was no sign of him.”

I struggled harder. “Let me down!”

John relented. I was the spoiled daughter of older parents and he liked me to learn my lessons the hard way. “I’m going this way,” he told me, turning his horse’s head.

“You go then,” I said. “I know my way.”

He regarded me with a smirk. “You’ll certainly have it, whether you know it or not,” he agreed. “What will you do if the army comes upon you?”

“I shall ask if they’ve seen my pony. I’m not afraid of them, Johnny. They’re just men. They’ve won the war; why should they care to make trouble for a little girl?”

“I’d advise you to keep a civil tongue as a precaution,” he said.

“I know my manners,” I reminded him.

“Very well, then,” he sighed. He put his heels to his horse and set off at a canter. I stood and watched him ride away, determined not to be afraid. Pumpkin needed me. I could not afford to crumble.

But I cursed my brother under my breath as I ventured into the shade of the wood. Being angry with him helped to hold the fear at bay, so I grumbled against his superior air and the cruelty of abandoning me in this wilderness. If something did happen to me, my mother would kill him and it would serve him right. Knowing John, however, I suspected that he had doubled back and was patrolling the area for my safety, perhaps even shadowing me as I followed a well-worn track through the trees. He was a wily spy; there was no sound to betray him. There was no sign of Pumpkin, either, and I began to curse him as well.

All was forgiven in the instant when I heard more than one horse approaching. I had given up the search for the moment, pausing for a bout of frightened tears which was not quite over. Drying my eyes with my hands, I turned, expecting to see my brother and a penitent pony. I was disappointed.

It was a small group of strangers: three men and a woman on a journey. None of them were remarkable but for the one man who was more finely-dressed than the others, and who carried himself with an air of nobility more assumed than inbred. I took him to be the leader of the group and made my entreaty to him. “Please, sir,” I said, forcing him to draw rein by stepping into his path, “have you or your companions seen a chestnut pony hereabouts? He won’t be harnessed and he has a white sock on his near forefoot.”

“Nay, child,” the gentleman replied, “the only horses we have seen are these. Stand aside now, or you’ll be trampled.”

“Then which way have you come, sir, so I know not to look there?”

He hesitated for a heartbeat. I caught the briefest of glances between the woman and the second man, and deduced that I was about to be told a lie.

“We are headed for Bristol, miss.”

The third man had spoken; the one riding behind the woman. I had not taken specific notice of him, but his voice drew my eye to his face. It was a wonderful voice, deep and calming—and speaking the truth. I knew by the way the others fell oddly silent. And his face was kind, the black eyes warm with sympathy for my plight. I was immediately soothed and did not know why except that he was the source.

“Are you looking alone for your pony?” the woman inquired.

“My brother has gone the other way.”

“And your parents?” she persisted.

“Waiting at home. It’s not so important to them. They have their own concerns.” I was speaking to the third man, my eyes locked on his. He should have been the leader; there was something naturally commanding about him. “Would you help me find my pony?” I asked.

His smile widened. He was young and handsome, dark like my father and brother. I thought he might agree to help if his master permitted. I hoped he would.

“We cannot delay further,” the first man declared. He, too, spoke to the third man. “Come along, Will.”

Will nodded and straightened up in the saddle. He rode tall, sitting his horse like a hero without making an effort to do so. The first man clucked to his mount and I jumped out of the way to watch them pass. They started off at a brisk trot, and in the seconds before his horse picked up the pace, Will doffed his hat to me. His thick hair was long and black. “I hope you find your pony, miss,” he said.

I curtsied as my nanny had taught me. “Thank you, sir. Have a safe journey.”

He chuckled as he passed by, spurring his horse to a canter to catch up to the others.

“Margaret!” It was John, calling from the other side of the wood. I turned and ran toward his voice, promptly dismissing the encounter in my haste to see Pumpkin again.

copyright 1999 Ruth R. Greig