Traitor's Knot: Quest for the Three Kingdoms

CHAPTER 1

Naseby, England

14 June 1645

The Roundheads were closing in.

Cut off from his men, Captain James Hart galloped along Broad Moor, dodging dragoon fire and enemy cavalry. From the hedgerows, musket shot screeched past his head, and he flattened against the neck of his bay mare. Fog obscured the moor as acrid smoke choked his throat and sweat stung his eyes. His lathered horse nearly stumbled on the muddy turf.

James pulled hard to the left to avoid a company of pikemen. The field grew hazier; he advanced another hundred yards before he realised that a fallen soldier blocked his path.

Instinctively, he took a tight hold of the reins as he closed his legs firmly on her sides. The bay arched in the air, and before they could clear the body, a volley of wild musket fire hit the horse. The mare screamed and lurched sideways. James kicked his feet from the stirrups and launched himself off. He slammed against the ground and rolled several teeth-shattering feet.

Spots fired across his eyes. James pushed himself upright, past the barrier of screaming muscles and ringing ears. The ground rumbled from the pounding of a thousand horses. His own wounded beast thrashed in the mud.

James staggered towards his horse. Her liquid brown eye rolled, and white foam trickled from her mouth. Her screams cut through him.

Christ’s teeth. He swallowed the lump in his throat and crouched beside her. Damn.

James drew his carbine, took a steadying breath and aimed at the horse’s forehead. In the last second before firing, he turned his head. The shot resounded in his ears—her pain was silenced.

He had to get out of here. By now, the rebels were swarming the field, closing the net on the king’s infantry. On the northern ridge, King Charles’s colours snapped in retreat. Odds were against an unhorsed Royalist.

James searched for an escape, and his attention lit on a Roundhead dragoon lying dead several feet away. He scrambled through the mud to reach the fallen rebel. When an enemy trooper drew closer, James flattened to the ground, face down. Willing himself to lie still, James’s heart hammered in his throat. The muscles between his shoulder blades twitched as he anticipated a shot in the back.

The trooper passed without slowing. James lifted his head and crawled the last foot to reach the dead man. He pulled off his own montero hat and exchanged it for the dragoon’s distinctive pot helmet.

I scorn to take quarter, James muttered under his breath as he worked to cut away the dead man’s cartridge bag, from base rogues and rebels. Next he pried the musket from the man’s claw grip.

James grimaced when he realised that he still wore his regiment’s blue ribbon tied around his sleeve. He ripped it off and prayed his ploy would work. If he could blend in with the bloody rebels long enough to skirt past their lines, he might rejoin his commander, the Earl of Northampton, and what was left of their regiment.

But first he needed to get past those hedgerows.

As he ran across the moor, James slammed into a maelstrom, dodging past an enemy determined to kill as many Royalists as they could. In pockets, the fighting continued—men fought with bloodied swords or swung the butt-end of their muskets as clubs.

Hundreds of soldiers littered the moor, a carpet of buff, blue and red coats. James tried to focus on getting off the field until a familiar blue ribbon stopped him.

Stokes—his cornet.

Face up, the man looked as though he slept until James neared and saw that half his face had been torn away by shot. A corner of their troop flag peeked from under his body. Even in death, the cornet had protected their colours.

James stuffed the flag inside his coat.

Another troop of enemy cavalry headed towards him. This was useless. He’d never make it off this godforsaken field. There had to be another way.

A trio of riderless horses balked several yards away. Two trotted off, leaving the last one, a black, penned by the currents of cavalry crisscrossing the field. A young, disorientated animal—James only had a moment before it bolted. The black saw him coming and reared. James approached him warily, murmuring in a soothing tone until he managed to get close enough to seize the reins.

Hoisting himself into the saddle, James took command of the beast. Hope you still have a good run left in you. The moment he touched his spurs to the horse’s side, the animal flew across the field, churning up the turf.

They galloped along the hedgerows, frantically searching for a break. Ahead, the line ended, revealing a rolling meadow beyond. This was his chance. James raced through the gap and gave the black his head. He stole a glance over his shoulder—he couldn’t believe his fortune. No one was in pursuit.

The field sloped towards a wooded gully. James found a narrow path leading into a shallow creek. They splashed their way northward, hugging the tree line. The sounds of battle dropped off behind them. He had made it—for now.

James slowed to let his horse catch his wind. Rubbing his stubbled beard, he grimaced. What the hell had happened? How had this engagement unravelled? At the outset, the King’s cavalry had managed to smash through the enemy horse—how had the other lines failed?

He thought of Stokes, and his conscience gnawed at him for leaving his man behind. The cornet had been a good Warwickshire man, full of fire and loyalty to the crown. He deserved better than being left for carrion. After three years of fighting, it never got easier.

James couldn’t stay here—he had to keep moving and find the rest of his unit. Where? He glanced over his shoulder towards the battlefield, and his mouth went dry. Nay. He had to believe they escaped. It was up to him to find them. He visualised the area from memory. The King had set up temporary headquarters in Market Harborough to the northeast. His best chance was to continue north several miles, then cut east to reach the Leicester road.

James urged his horse upriver. He followed the gully a couple of miles until he reached a stand of trees and followed a trail into the forest proper. The path narrowed, becoming more treacherous, with tangled roots heaved up across the track. He picked his way carefully, heading deeper into the woods.

After advancing a quarter of a mile, the black’s ears flicked a warning. James reined in and strained to listen. Wild whoops and laughter grew more distinct.

More bloody Roundheads.

James knew he should search for another way past them, yet something inexplicable pulled him forward. He advanced cautiously.

Through the trees, James spied the King’s baggage train. Rebels swarmed the site, crowing over the richness of their prize. He couldn’t see any of the baggage guards—didn’t know whether they had escaped or had been taken prisoner. Most of the carts and wagons were still there, pulled up in a defensive line. A few had been overturned, their contents raked across the ground. Casks and boxes were being smashed open as the looters seized the King’s effects—coin and private documents.

Back away—nothing you can do about it.

Shrill whistles and shouts farther down transformed the swarming men into a semblance of order. They jumped into the wagons, gathered the reins and set the horses in motion. The wagons creaked and rocked down the road, one by one disappearing from view.

All except the last one.

Two men pushed against the wooden panels, rocking the wagon back and forth to free the wheels from the mud while another drove the horses forward.

James studied the road. Here was a chance to salvage something of this day and save at least some of the King’s effects. One against three—and none with their muskets within easy reach.

He alighted from his horse and tied the animal to a sturdy branch. After priming his carbine, he checked the charge on the stolen musket. The irony of using the enemy’s weapon against them brought a grim smile.

James crept towards the Roundhead soldiers, careful where he stepped lest a snapped twig alert his quarry. Oblivious, they continued at their labours, swearing and cursing.

When he reached as close as he dared, James lifted his carbine and aimed at the nearest man. Releasing a slow breath, he squeezed the trigger. A bark of an explosion—the man crumbled to the ground. The other two scrambled to take cover.

James dropped the carbine and settled the musket in his grip. He lined the sights on another who nearly disappeared behind the wagon. Fire. The Roundhead grunted and flew to the ground.

James sprang through the trees after the last man. By the time he reached the lead team of horses, the rebel soldier was already halfway down the footpath and barrelling back to camp—he’d never catch him in time. James ran back towards the forest and trailed to a halt when he finally saw the road.

At first, he only registered the clothes strewn on the ground—cloaks, skirts and aprons trampled into the mud—and he wondered at the rebels for scattering them. Then with a slow, creeping horror, the truth set in. These weren’t just clothes—these were women—at least a hundred. Their camp followers—all massacred.

The shock drove a fist into his gut.

Broken bodies littered the ground. Their faces were slashed; fistfuls of tangled hair torn in clumps. Shredded skirts hiked up over smeared limbs—twisted, mangled limbs. So much blood—pooled in a scum over soaked ground. They had tried to defend themselves with whatever weapon they had on hand—kitchen knives and iron skillets. But they were no match against broadswords, muskets and an enemy fuelled by bloodlust.

James choked back the bile that rose hot in his throat. He bent over his knees, fighting for control.

He had never seen anything like this—even through three brutal years of war—nothing like this.

Three years of mourning men lying dead on the field, their bodies ravaged by shot, was nothing compared to seeing these women torn apart like corn dolls. At least the soldiers had a fighting chance. What ground had these rebels tried to take? Nothing strategic like a bridge or a pass. Just a group of wagons defended by women with kitchen knives.

Cowards—depraved, rabid dogs. Roundheads.

James recalled the ribald laughter as they drove away and now understood its darker meaning. And they had thought nothing of it—those damned, holier than thou, godly Puritans—preaching out of both sides of their mouths. Haranguing the King for not being godly enough, then tearing apart the country while they played the downtrodden and ill-used.

Damn them.

James began to search for faces he knew and squatted beside one woman—glassy eyes stared up at the sky, her legs set at an unnatural angle. Long Meg. She had been a matronly woman who scolded the lot of them with the authority of a hen-mother. A blade had sliced her from ear to jaw and finished across her throat. Her bodice was stained red, as though she had been dipped in a vat of dye. James reached across and gently closed her eyes. He bowed his head. Burning fury squeezed his chest like an iron band.

A scurrying from the direction of the forest alerted him. James straightened and drew his sword, advancing slowly towards the sound.

Let it be one of those whoresons.

As he drew closer, he heard a crack of snapped twigs and a muffled sob. He parted a low-hanging bough and found a cowering woman backed under a blackthorn shrub. Her white face was stark against smears of blood and mud. Her clothes were torn, and she clutched her shredded bodice with shaky hands.

Keep away, she whispered. In God’s name, mercy.

James smothered his surprise and lowered his sword. Extending his hand, he said, You’re safe with me, lass. Come out.

She shook her head and wedged herself even tighter. I’ve seen the devil, and he is you.

James frowned, puzzled, then it occurred to him. He yanked off his helmet and tossed it away. I’m not one of them, he tried to assure her, but her expression remained terrified. I’m a king’s man, of that you may have faith. He pulled out his troop’s flag from his buff coat and showed it to her.

A guarded relief replaced the panic. James squatted down so he could meet her at eye level. You’ll not be harmed, he softened his tone, but we have to leave now—they’ll be upon us any moment.

Tentatively, she accepted his hand and allowed him to help her to her feet. He led her to his tethered horse. By now, she was shaking uncontrollably. He had to get her out of here while he still could.

A blare of trumpets sounded in the distance. Their time had run out.

Over the next fortnight, James came to the realization that the King would not win the war. This bleak thought twisted in his gut and made him silent in dread. It hadn’t taken root because of the thousands of men they lost at Naseby, or the vital munitions they had also lost, but from the King’s crippling inaction. When one of the generals, Lord Goring, sent a formal reply about why he hadn’t marched three thousand of his men to Naseby when it had been requested of him—three thousand would have assured them victory—the King mildly accepted Goring’s excuses for keeping his troops in the West Country.

Still worse, the King had not acknowledged the massacre of the baggage women. He expressed more concern about his lost papers.

Reports had spread quickly after the battle, and the bloody Roundheads tried to play down the carnage. They claimed that the women had been naught but Irish prostitutes and filthy papists. Before long, people had begun to believe the propaganda. What would it take for them to open their eyes to the hypocrisy of these traitors? Most of the women who had served the King’s men their supper and mended their clothes had not been prostitutes, papist or Irish. They were good, solid Welsh women who had accompanied their men to answer the King’s muster—many of those same men were buried on the moor or herded to London like branded cattle. The damned rebels shouldn’t be allowed to walk away from this.

Neither could he. Long Meg’s glassy eyes and slit throat haunted James. He had been in the saddle constantly since Naseby, more his choice than need—except for their initial flight north. Any request for a scout and James took the assignment himself, hoping to catch one of those bastards. James itched to get one of those New Model Army whoresons within pistol range.

His men had begun to comment on his withdrawal. Before, he’d join them for an evening of Irish—backgammon to the novice—but he’d lost the taste for the game. James hadn’t missed the looks exchanged between his men whenever he snapped over the state of their supplies.

During a stalled meeting in Hereford where finger-pointing became a new sport, James lost all patience and stalked out. His commander took him aside, and James braced himself for a dressing down. Instead, the earl laid a hand on his shoulder and said, I have an assignment for you, James. I can trust no other.

Glad for the reprieve from the soul-grinding politics, and honoured to have been handpicked by the earl, James headed south to Bristol on the black horse he had found at Naseby. In his saddlebag, he carried the dispatches for the young Prince of Wales along with a coveted introduction.

A dirty wind, full of biting rain, kicked up just as he reached the Bristol road. The air carried a taste of salt, and he gauged that he was close to the port town. Rather than turning up his cloak against the elements, he tipped his head to the streaming rain and let it scour away his tension.

In the late afternoon, Bristol Castle came into view just as the rain trickled to naught. James crossed a stone bridge that spanned a fathomless river. Wheeling seagulls flew overhead, screeching their discontent, an endless whirl of white and grey wings casting shadows on the wet cobbles.

A company of musketeers manned the city gates with a pair of matched cannon lined up to the approach.

What news, Captain Hart? the lieutenant asked, inspecting James’s pass.

The rebels are pillaging Dorset, Christ rot their soul, James said.

As long as they stay clear of here.

Wish for something else, friend, James muttered.

Have you heard aught? The man leaned in closer.

James looked past him to the crowded streets. Where can I find His Highness, the Prince of Wales?

The guard’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded. Report to Richard Fanshawe, the prince’s secretary. You’ll find him in the town hall. He’ll make sure your messages get to the prince, God save him.

James touched the brim of his hat in agreement. God save us all.

Bristol was clogged with Rupert’s men. Following Naseby, Prince Rupert, the King’s nephew, had hurried back to see to the town’s fortifications. They couldn’t afford to lose this port town.

When James reached the town hall, a clerk directed him to the library to wait while he fetched Richard Fanshawe.

James idly leafed through a book placed on a stand. The scent of bindings and leather encircled him. For a moment, he was back in Oxford, forced to study numbers by his father, who had hoped to make more of his son than a farmer. Books made everything deceptively simpler. Every problem lined up neatly in meticulous order on the shelf. His father had always been rigid in his misguided view of the world. James slammed the book shut.

Captain Hart? A man in the dawn of his middle years approached. I am Richard Fanshawe. He had an intelligent face and the thoughtful expression of a man who guarded his words with care.

James pushed aside all traces of irritation and tried to smile. Well met, sir. I carry dispatches for His Highness.

Your timing is impeccable. The prince is with his advisors at this very moment. Come with me.

He followed the secretary down a warren of corridors and staircases until they reached a large room filled with noblemen of every cut and cloth. And in the centre of their universe revolved a single figure clothed in blue silk breeches and coat.

James had only seen Prince Charles a couple of times, and only from a distance. He looked nothing like his father—neither his olive complexion, which favoured his French mother, nor his height, for even at fifteen, he towered over the others and was already as tall as James.

Dispatches from the King, Your Highness. James stepped forward and bowed respectfully. A page appeared at his side and relieved him of the letters.

How fares my father? the prince asked.

As well as can be expected, James said.

And your name, sir? the prince asked while he cracked the seal.

Captain James Hart, Your Highness. I have the privilege of serving under my lord, the Earl of Northampton.

You're from Warwickshire?

Aye, Your Highness.

And your family? Who is your father?

James hesitated a moment. Edward Hart, a yeoman.

You've risen in Northampton's ranks. He must value your family's support during these difficult times.

James's jaw tightened. He forced himself to meet the prince's questioning gaze. My father counts himself with the rebels. He paused a moment. Though not to the extent that he'd ever take to the field. I earned my commission on my own merits.

The prince's brow lifted slightly. I see. He studied James for a few moments, his expression unfathomable. Finally, the prince turned his attention to his letter, frowning as he read it. When he finished, he handed it to Fanshawe. Captain, I would know your thoughts on these rebels. How is the war progressing?

The enquiry surprised James. His commander had often asked his opinion, but as they were both of the same age and had served the late earl before his death, they had developed an unusual camaraderie.

James glanced around the room. These men, dancing in attendance, were no different than the ones who surrounded the King.

What to tell him? James had heard enough nobles stroke the King’s ego with flattering optimism, truth be damned. And yet was this not what the King and his generals wanted to hear?

The prince waited for his answer. James studied Charles’s expression. There was a keen intelligence in those dark eyes, and he didn’t look like he’d be satisfied with platitudes.

Not well, James replied. The loss at Naseby was significant. We lost too many men and munitions to recover with ease. If your cousin, Prince Rupert, can’t hold Bristol, all may be lost.

A number of the nobles in the room snorted their disbelief that the rebels could ever have the upper hand. Naseby was a setback, they insisted—naught but a minor one.

James pressed his clenched fists against his thighs and held his tongue. He anticipated the prince’s outrage, but Charles only nodded.

As I thought, Captain. I appreciate your honesty. I better understand the urgency of this dispatch. Charles faced his puzzled advisors. My father desires my withdrawal to Cornwall posthaste, where I’ll be further removed from these rebels.

A fresh wave of murmured conversation rippled through the room. James listened in growing alarm as they started tallying up the logistics of moving the prince’s household. He saw the royal convoy growing until it became a small army—and ripe for Parliament to pluck.

Your Highness, he raised his voice to be heard. "I’ve been entrusted by my lord to ensure you reach Cornwall safely. Such a large . . . party . . . would attract unwanted attention."

It hardly matters—Parliament wouldn’t dare accost the prince, a grey-haired courtier said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

You are mistaken, my lord, if you believe these rebels are strangers to atrocity, James replied curtly.

And what do you recommend, Captain, that our sovereign’s son should slink away like a guilty thief in the night?

Fools. Vacant fools. Must be the layers of brocade that had addled their brains. They might as well hand the prince over to the New Model Army. And whose fault would it be if the prince’s household was caught on the road? James Hart, scapegoat.

He counted slowly to three before responding. The prince will have a better chance of reaching Cornwall safely if he travelled lightly with one or two trusted retainers. I see no reason to announce his departure.

And expose himself to highwaymen and brigands? Captain, you haven’t thought this through, the courtier said, condescension dripping off his tongue. Is this the best that Northampton could send? A man whose own people are amongst the traitors? The late earl would have shown greater judgment.

With all due respect, James said, I will not condone any disrespect to my lord. Of his own father, he would spare no words for his defence.

Peace, Captain, neither will I hear a word spoken against the earl, Charles said. "Your loyalty commends you, as does his letter of introduction. He mentions that you were crafty enough to elude the enemy at Naseby. Courage and loyalty are a prized and rare combination."

James bowed to the compliment.

But I must mind my advisors, the prince continued. My household is dependent upon me as I am on them. It’s impossible to leave them behind. We’ll leave at the end of the week. Fanshawe will make the necessary arrangements.

James took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He shouldn’t have been surprised—in fact, he rather had expected something of this, though a small part of him had hoped that the prince would see reason. The King had never been able to fathom that his life was ever in danger; why would the son, at the indestructible age of fifteen, believe otherwise? I am at your service, Your Highness.

In the meantime, you’ll find accommodations at the Nag’s Head with my compliments. Get some rest, Captain. The next several days will be busy.

James bowed to the prince and nodded curtly to Fanshawe. Without another glance at the advisors, he strode out of the chamber. He spent the next couple of hours walking off his aggravation before returning to the town hall to collect his horse and seek out the Nag’s Head. The city was bursting with soldiers, and rooms were dear. Without the prince’s recommendation, he’d have been hard-pressed to find a corner in the stable, though in his present mood, being forced to share a room with two others made him reconsider this as the better option.

He found a seat in a quiet corner of the Nag’s common room and had worked his way through the greater part of his tankard when a servant boy ran up to him.

Are you Captain Hart, sir?

Aye, what is it?

You’re needed in the stables, sir. Right now.

James rose to his feet. Is aught wrong with my horse?

Nay—nothing like that, the boy said quickly. A gentleman wants a private word.

Who is it?

That I can’t say.

Before James could question him further, the lad whirled around and darted out the door. James tossed back the last of his ale before following him.

The clouds had lifted, leaving the moonless sky riddled with stars. James made his way around the empty courtyard and found the stable doors wide open. Instead of finding the ostler, the prince’s secretary waited for him.

Master Fanshawe?

A moment of your time as well as your discretion.

James frowned, his curiosity instantly piqued. I am at your service.

I thank you, but there is another who needs it more. Fanshawe glanced over at the stalls to the rear of the building, drawing James’s attention there. Even in the dim lantern light, James recognised the prince. His confusion deepened.

As James approached, he noticed that the prince stood by James’s horse. The black preened over the attention.

What a magnificent animal, Charles said, running a hand over the horse’s sleek neck. He has some Friesian in him.

He’s an undisciplined beast, James replied.

Ah, he’s yours, Charles said, clearly impressed.

One of the spoils of war, you could say. James looked around, expecting to see a guard, but instead there were only shadows. How may I serve you?

Prepare to escort me to Cornwall before daybreak.

James had not expected this. Has your household managed to do the impossible and finish their packing in a few hours’ time?

As soon as he said it, he immediately regretted the flippancy. But to his surprise, the prince grinned.

Hardly. They’re still debating about how many silver candlesticks to bring. The argument will last for days.

James smiled wryly. The prince had a sense of humour. Another difference from his father.

Now tell me truthfully. Has the earl exaggerated your talents? Charles asked.

My lord does not throw words away.

Charles smiled again. As I had hoped to hear. Your suggestion to travel light has merit, and I’m willing to entrust my life to your plan, Captain.

James frowned, wondering if he had heard aright. If I may ask, what changed your mind?

Nothing—my mind was set on this course from the beginning, Charles said. I understood the need for discretion. Though my cousin holds Bristol for the King, I’m not naive enough to believe that all her citizens share the same loyalty. Let everyone think we’re leaving at week’s end. Fanshawe will perpetuate the fiction—by the time anyone has realised, we’ll be halfway to Truro.

James’s smile deepened. Well done. He nodded appreciatively. This was a refreshing change. We’ll need to get you a change of clothes. Something a young apprentice might be able to afford.

Fanshawe has already sorted that out, Captain.

He’s a good man.

The very best. I like to believe that I’m a good judge of character, Charles said. I like to weigh a man by his actions. Give me your word that you will see me to the west safely. I will not be the means to give victory to my father’s enemies.

James took a deep breath. You have my word on it, but you’ll have to trust my methods, no matter how unconventional they are. We’ve underestimated these bastards long enough.

The horse decided at this moment that he had had enough of being ignored and nudged the prince. Charles looked up and laughed. Brazen fellow. What’s his name?

I don’t know—I haven’t yet given him a new one.

He’s a kingly brute, the prince said. Call him Sovereign.

For the first time in weeks, James cracked a genuine smile. The horse’s former master would be rolling in his shallow grave. Very well. Sovereign he’ll be—just as you will one day when you succeed your father.

James drew his sword from its scabbard with a soft hiss of metal against metal and presented it to the prince. You have my pledge to defend and keep you safe. Upon my honour.

CHAPTER 2

Weymouth, Dorset 1650

Elizabeth Seton couldn’t understand the greed of seagulls. The two birds beat their wings and fought over a scrap of offal while ignoring the endless sea. She had a desire to pick up her skirts and, so running, scatter them to the sky. But from behind her, a rock was thrown at the birds. It bounced off the cobbles a foot away from them. Gulls took flight, and Elizabeth whirled around, equally startled. A soot-faced urchin winked and scampered off.

Elizabeth smiled in the direction of the retreating boy and continued down the quayside towards the market. The wind off the bay freshened, whipping her dark hair and skirts. She tucked an errant lock back into her coif and snuggled deeper into her blue woollen cloak. No time to tarry. She had business to attend.

When she neared the market, her stomach gave a nervous flutter. Positive thoughts breed true. She adjusted the basket that rode in the crook of her arm and pressed on.

Elizabeth wended her way through the market stalls, not stopping at the rows of long whitefish laid out silvery across wooden boards. Their fresh scent of the sea beckoned for a closer inspection, but her business was with the oystercatcher’s wife. If it went well, she’d return for one of the smaller ones.

Elizabeth’s boots tapped against the stone cobbles, and she practised under her breath, I hear, Fishwife Midden, that Margery has left your employ. Annoyed with herself, she shook her head. The woman would think she was a gossip, and no one trusted a loose tongue. Elizabeth needed to impress her. The Middens preferred their help young enough to be trained to their ways, but at twenty-two, Elizabeth found herself at a disadvantage.

There was a time when Elizabeth didn’t need to worry about finding employment. Before the war, her father, Thomas Seton, had once been a respected shipwright, his trade crucial in a seaside town, while her mother, Mary, was a healer and the first to be fetched for matters regarding childbirth and sickness. Elizabeth had expected to follow her mother’s calling.

She passed a row of empty stalls and for a moment considered selling their ointments, but she knew better. A gift for a gift, never coin—her grandmother’s mantra. No matter how reduced their circumstances, Mary Seton would never accept payment for physic. It didn’t matter. None would purchase in public what they now avoided in private.

When Elizabeth spied a knot of women at the cheesemonger’s, she slowed down. Here was the elite of Weymouth—officers’ wives and those closely connected to the Parliamentary governor. They were particular friends of her older sister, Kate Hallet, though none of hers. Elizabeth considered skirting their position, but instead she lifted her chin, held her breath and stayed true. As she passed, one said, There’s Seton’s girl. Shame about that business.

Elizabeth flinched, but she forced herself to ignore them.

Though the war had ended a year earlier with the King’s execution, the divisions had never been repaired. Even Kate, who had married a Parliament garrison soldier, kept a resolute distance from Elizabeth and their mother. Only a handful of Royalist families still concerned themselves with her family’s welfare.

Up ahead, the oystercatcher’s stall thronged with customers. Elizabeth took heart and made her way to the front.

There you are, mistress. Fishwife Midden greeted her with a smile. Her nose was tipped pink, and her hands were gnarled from working in the cold seawater. You’ve picked a good day. The oysters are plump and juicy. Six or eight?

Elizabeth hesitated. Four, if you please.

Only that? The woman’s brow’s puckered. She bent over a barrel and scooped out the oysters, placing them in Elizabeth’s basket. How’s your mother doing? I heard she ain’t well.

Better, thank you, Elizabeth replied, handing over two of her remaining coins. I’m certain she’s taken a good turn.

God save her, the fishwife said. We’ve missed her these past few months.

Elizabeth watched the old woman edge away, her eyes darting to the next customer. This was her chance. I was wondering . . .

Aye, dearie?

I ran into Margery the other day—

Did you now? Stopped to chat, did she? Fishwife Midden rested her hands on her round hips.

I had a thought—since my mother is doing better, she’ll need less of my attention, Elizabeth said. You’ll need help now that Margery is gone. I can attend behind the counter or sort out the catch.

Fishwife Midden’s expression softened. I’m afraid not, dearie. She started to turn away, and Elizabeth laid her hand on the woman’s arm.

You can pay me half of what you paid Margery. I’ll still bless you for it.

You’re worth more than that, sweetling, she replied, but I can’t take you on.

Please. Elizabeth hated to beg but swallowed her pride. For the regard you and your husband once bore my father, for all the repairs he made on your fishing boats without a shilling . . .

Mistress Seton, she said with the slightest emphasis on her last name, it’s impossible. She glanced past her shoulder and nodded to someone. Elizabeth turned and found the officers’ wives flanked behind her.

Are you done, Fishwife? their leader asked. If I’m delayed in this manner, I’ll press on to another stall.

Apologies, mistress, Fishwife Midden said. Did you want your usual quarter barrel?

The flow of the market passed over Elizabeth, rendering her invisible. It always came down to that. Not many in Weymouth dared doff their caps to the memory of those, like her father, who had taken a stand for the King.

The rest of the town still called them traitors.

Elizabeth hurried past Chapel Fort, a garrison still manned by Parliament. Over the last five years, she couldn’t walk past it without averting her gaze. Ghosts, she had once quipped. Her mother had not laughed. If there were ghosts anywhere, it would be at Chapel Fort.

The fight for Chapel Fort had started with one word: Crabchurch. A byword for loyalty, and a secret call to action.

The first time Elizabeth heard the word was the night the Royalists enlisted her father for the uprising. She had listened from the stairs, hugging her knees to her chest, as they made their plans to seize Weymouth and the ports for the King.

The town constable had arrived with a stranger, a hard-edged man named Hodder.

You’re loyal to the King, Seton. Join us and take a stand against Parliament, the constable said. Elizabeth drew her cold feet beneath the hem of her gown and tried not to make a sound. On the appointed hour, we’ll move against the garrisons at Chapel Fort and the Nothe and take back Weymouth and Melcombe for the King. The ports will be ours.

Our chances are grim, her father said. None of us are soldiers. Loyalty alone cannot be our sword.

Master Hodder has already secured the support of the King’s commander in Dorset, who marches this way. We will not fail.

Five pounds to every man with us, Hodder said. His words caused a shiver to snake down Elizabeth’s spine. "On the word Crabchurch, we strike."

How many have you bought?

Sixty so far.

There was a pause. I’ll give you my answer in the morning.

After they left, Elizabeth’s mother pleaded with him to reject their offer. Their words became heated, forcing Elizabeth to press her hands against her ears.

This is not your fight, Thomas. They will use you as cannon fodder.

The time is past for sitting on the shale. My silence will not give them approval any longer.

Think of your eldest—her husband is for the governor, for God’s sake. Mary was close to tears. Think of Kate; I beg you. Please—don’t do this.

Her father gathered a reluctant Mary in his arms. He looked over his wife’s shoulder and spied Elizabeth on the stairs. He held her gaze for a long moment. "I am considering my family. We’ve kept our head down long enough. I mean for it to end now."

The next night, Thomas Seton left to join the conspirators. Sixteen days later, he returned lying on a bier, covered with a bloody sheet. Her mother had never been the same—neither had she.

Elizabeth shut her mind to the ghosts and locked away the familiar pain in a rarely opened corner of her heart. She trudged across the newly ploughed fields and took stock of her situation.

Matters were dire. They had gone through the last of their winter stores, and their garden beds had only been recently sown with spinach and leeks. Fishermen friends often dropped off a fish or two when they could—an extra bit of catch, Elizabeth would assure her mother to save Mary the embarrassment of charity. But no one had recently visited them—not even her sister, Kate, though that wasn’t new.

There had to be a better way, Elizabeth thought as she gazed across the grey waters of the bay. At least she still had her father’s fishing boat—she’d just have to gather her own oysters.

By the time Elizabeth reached her lane, the sun had disappeared behind a bank of sullen clouds. The wind snatched the gate out of her hand and slammed it against the post. She climbed the steps and paused on the doorstep. Her father had often complained that the concave threshold, hallowed by the passage of many feet, would need to be replaced. A bittersweet smile hovered on her lips.

Elizabeth’s mother hadn’t stirred from her makeshift cot in the kitchen since she left, and the blanket was still tucked under her chin. Careful not to disturb her, Elizabeth settled her basket on the worktable. Half-empty glass jars, dimmed by dust, clustered together. No ointments or tinctures waited for collection. No orders to be filled.

A draught whistled through the cracks of the windowpanes. In the months following her father’s death, her mother had sold what she could to survive—fine linens passed down from her grandmother, Holland cloth and laces, and a carpet given to her by an uncle. It had been galling at first, but her mother, ever pragmatic, shut her eyes to the sentiment. Only a few small treasures remained. The silver brush set, a wedding gift from her mother’s widowed sister, Isabel, who lived in Warwick, still had a place on her plain dresser.

Elizabeth stared at the brush set. It could fetch enough to fill their bellies into the next year. She’d have to sell it—there was no choice. But then her mother would realise just how desperate they were, and Elizabeth couldn’t do that to her. She had managed to hide their circumstances for the past several months. Mary’s health was poor, and she had lost enough—she didn’t need this extra burden. When her mother fully recovered, matters would improve. In the meantime, Elizabeth would have to find a way.

The chill had suddenly deepened. Elizabeth looked over at her mother in the cot and frowned. The first stirrings of disquiet crept into her, and she hugged herself. A hollow silence pressed upon the room.

Her mother hadn’t stirred.

Elizabeth prepared her mother’s body for burial in a fog of disbelief. Working alone, she gathered their best linens, then crushed sprigs of rosemary and lavender into a jar of oil, letting them steep while she washed her mother’s face. Gently, she closed her mother’s blue eyes, so like her own, and smoothed her mother’s hair. After Elizabeth finished, she folded her hands in her lap and held a numb vigil. An emptiness filled her, a gaping hole. The candlelight played across her mother’s still features, giving the illusion of life—but it was only that, an illusion and therefore no comfort.

The next morning, three old friends of her father’s, brothers in spirit who had never forsaken them, arrived to take Mary to church. A painful lump formed in Elizabeth’s throat when she saw them at her doorstep, wearing their best navy coats and most sombre expressions.

The leader of the trio, Old Nick, patted her on the shoulder and said, God keep her soul.

Elizabeth nearly broke down, but she gathered the edges of her tears and tucked them away. I have no gloves or ribbons to hand out at the church, she said with a catch in her voice. This bothered her more than she expected. Anyone who came to show their respect should be given even the meanest of gloves as a token, even if they hadn’t given Mary a hand in five years.

Your mother, bless her, never stood on ceremony, lass, Old Nick said. Rest easy. Maybe your sister will bring them.

Elizabeth allowed that to pass. She hadn’t any assurances where Kate was concerned.

The men lifted Mary onto the bier and carried her to the wagon they used as a hearse. Elizabeth climbed in the rear to stay with her mother. All along the bumpy way, Elizabeth fixed