Marigold Chain Read online

  THE

  MARIGOLD

  CHAIN

  A Restoration Novel

  Stella Riley

  The Marigold Chain

  Stella Riley

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012 Stella Riley

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  LONDON September 1665

  Silence, heavy as a funeral pall, hung over the stifling heat of London. And because it had scarcely rained since April, the stench rose sickeningly from the filth in the gutters and from the accumulated refuse, noisomely rotting in the laystalls. The closely-gabled streets, empty of carriages and drays, carts and stalls, devoid of their usual bustling throng, echoed eerily with the hurried footsteps of those rare souls intrepid enough to venture abroad; shops were shuttered, taverns closed and on Cheapside, once a busy thoroughfare, grass grew between the cobbles. Like the ghost of some interminable Puritan Sunday, death had cast its greedy shadow over the City.

  And while the plague reigned in London and claimed a hundred thousand souls, the Court invested Oxford with brittle brilliance and stayed to celebrate Christmas.

  ~ * * * ~

  PART ONE

  THE CIRCUS

  Oxford, January 1666

  THE CAVALIER

  ‘We have ventured our estates

  And our liberties and lives,

  For our Master and his mates

  And been tossed by cruel Fates

  Where the rebellious Devil drives

  So that not one of ten survives.

  We have laid all at stake

  For his Majesty’s sake,

  We have fought, we have paid,

  We’ve been sold and betrayed

  And tumbled from nation to nation:

  But now those are thrown down

  That usurped the Crown,

  Our hopes were that we

  All rewarded should be

  But we’re paid with a Proclamation.’

  ONE

  It was the first of January in the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and sixty-six – the year for which so much had been balefully prophesied – and, in Oxford, the sun was shining. Thin, feeble rays fell from a pale, translucent sky and touched the rime-encrusted trees with hard, gleaming beauty. It was cold; too cold for snow and the ground was like iron from a succession of fierce frosts. Today, the parties of courtiers still in exile from plague-stricken London and usually to be seen riding on this open stretch of common were absent, and the clearing was deserted save for the noisy inhabitants of a rookery, a girl sitting motionless on the stile and a sturdy four-year-old playing with a dog of uncertain lineage but unquestionable stamina.

  ‘Here, Aggie! Here!’ called the child, rushing in pursuit of his errant pet.

  A chill wind whipped the branches of the trees and set them dancing in a wild aerial ballet. The girl on the stile shivered and caught the folds of her cloak more closely around her. In doing so, she was forced to relinquish the broken strings of her hood which instantly blew off her head releasing a flood of pale red hair to lift and fly behind her. She made a half-hearted attempt to recapture it and then, resigning herself to remaining hoodless, jumped down and set off to follow the child who had wandered further off than she liked.

  ‘Aggie’s runned off,’ he observed. ‘Gone to caught rabbit.’

  The girl shook a strand of hair from her face. ‘So he has,’ she agreed in accents faintly but unmistakably French. ‘He is quite faithless and a disgrace to his name. Though how your Papa could suppose a name like Agamemnon suitable for any dog, I’ll never know.’

  ‘I want to play in my house,’ said the child, tugging at her cloak. ‘Come on, Crowie!’

  The girl grinned suddenly. The way Tom said it, her own name sounded even sillier.

  ‘Very well. Come, then.’ And she took his hand as they followed the direction that Aggie had taken along the edge of the copse.

  They could not have been more than half a dozen steps away from the hollow oak that Tom called his house when they saw the horsemen; four of them, riding easily along from the far end of the clearing, their voices ringing on the crisp air.

  ‘Look,’ said Tom, unnecessarily. ‘Is it the King, Crowie?’ His one brief sight of Charles 11 had had a profound effect on Master Tom, with the result that he now expected to discover his monarch in all manner of unlikely locations.

  ‘No, petit. Not the King. Some of his friends, perhaps.’

  They were closer now; three extravagantly dressed in velvet and lace with sweeping plumes in their hats and the fourth, some little way behind, older and more soberly attired but with a precision that proclaimed the soldier. There was a sudden burst of laughter and a light, pleasant voice said clearly, ‘Optimism and ambition are wonderful things, Daniel. But if it’s a wager, you’re welcome to try.’

  One of the group – presumably the aforementioned Daniel – broke away and, drawing his sword, brandished it laughingly. ‘Nice of you! But twenty guineas says I can unseat you.’

  The gentleman to whom his remark had been addressed also stopped.

  ‘Done,’ he said. And pulling off his coat, he flung it with lazy accuracy at the still, soldier-like figure some few yards to his left. Then he too drew his sword.

  ‘They’re having a war,’ announced Master Tom with relish. Then, ‘I like the brown horse best.’

  The girl smiled and kept a firm hold of his hand. Since the gentlemen were obviously not in earnest, there was no reason why the child should not watch and, here at the edge of the trees, they were far enough off to escape notice.

  It could not have lasted more than ten minutes but it was worth every freezing second. Worth it just to watch the horses - one a glossy chestnut, the other a magnificent black - and still more so to see the economic control which enabled their riders to manage them with only one hand and the pressure of their knees. And the swordplay was pure joy. The blades exploded together, ringing, chiming and hissing, wielded with supple dexterity; but where Daniel’s play showed neatness and the occasional flair of the well-taught, his dark-haired friend was possessed of an easy brilliance that enabled him to press a constant and fast-moving attack whilst maintaining a light-hearted commentary on his opponent’s technique.

  ‘Nowhere so busy a man as he there was, and yet he seemed busier than he was,’ he recited. ‘Oh no – not the feint you picked up in Scotland! It never works, you know … better to try the German style. You must have learned something from Rupert. Oh bravo!’ And he parried a deceptive thrust with an agile twist of his arm.

  It was perhaps fortunate that Daniel also had a sense of humour.

  ‘Some of the ditch shy are, yet can lie tumbling in the mire,’ he retorted. And concluded with an accompanying sweep that should have caused his adversary to fall as he attempted to parry it. Instead, Daniel’s blade met empty air as the other man dropped low to one side before returning to the saddle in the same fluid move, his point immediately darting inside Daniel’s weakened guard only to withdraw again.

  ‘Surprise is the essence of attack – and for God’s sake, keep your guard up. I don’t want to stick you by mistake. And those that shun the frying-pan -’ The bantering voice ceased abruptly as his point was parried and immediately threatened, ‘Well done. That nearly worked. But those who sow the wind, you know … may fall into the fi
re.’ And with one sharp, turn of the wrist, Daniel found himself disarmed.

  For a second there was silence and then, kicking his feet clear of the stirrups, the other man slipped from the saddle, saying invitingly, ‘Come on. Get down and pick it up. Let’s see how out of practice you really are.’

  Daniel shook his head, laughing a little. ‘I don’t think so. And anyway, the bet was that I’d unseat you – and there you are on the ground.’

  ‘But no thanks to you.’ The dark-haired man picked up Daniel’s sword. ‘If you want this back you’ll have to come and get it.’

  ‘Blast you, Alex – I know what you’re like!’

  ‘Meaning you’d prefer something a bit easier?’ He turned back to their other companions. ‘How about it Giles? You’ll be gentle with him, won’t you?’

  The man wearing exquisite grey velvet said calmly, ‘Hold me excused. I’ve no desire to work up a sweat just now. Give Danny his sword back, Alex. The horses are getting cold.’

  ‘You’re no fun.’ Alex looked back at Daniel. ‘If you won’t come down, your sword stays here - like Excalibur.’ And he drove Danny’s sword into the frozen ground.

  ‘No!’ Daniel dropped quickly from the saddle and made a dive for his maltreated blade. ‘You’re a bloody maniac, Alex.’

  ‘So they say.’ Alex advanced smiling. ‘Disarm me or put me on my back and the bet stands. Chicken out and you lose by default. That’s fair, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just do it, Danny,’ sighed the man in grey, ‘or we’ll be here all day.’

  Daniel shrugged and hurled himself at Alex, his sword sweeping hard at the other man’s blade. Alex parried, pivoted and, with another almost invisible twist, sent Daniel’s sword spinning and Daniel himself backwards on to the hard ground with a thud.

  Alex grinned, head on one side. ‘You should have recognised that one. It’s the second time I’ve used it in ten minutes.’ Then, sheathing his own sword, he held out a hand to Daniel and hauled him to his feet. ‘Pay up - and let’s go. Before Giles gets cross.’

  Grinning, Daniel pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and slapped them in Alex’s hand. ‘You can buy the ale,’ he said. ‘I’m cleaned out.’

  Then, laughing, they re-mounted their horses and it was over. The grey-clad man and the soldier cantered up to join them, coats were donned and they were off.

  Tom gazed wistfully after them, then twisted his head to look up at the girl. ‘I liked that, Crowie. I wish they’d do it again.’ And filled with the spirit of emulation he galloped round in circles until he came to the tree-house and vanished inside it. Aggie emerged panting from behind a bush and followed him.

  The girl hugged her mantle round her and glanced anxiously at the sky. Another ten minutes, perhaps, and then she must restore Tom to his Mama. She walked a little way along the edge of the copse and, finding a tree with a conveniently situated branch, hoisted herself on to it, aware that the prospect of abandoning freedom to return to her own home was even less palatable than usual. She sighed, stirring reluctantly, and then was still as a sound reached her ears. The drumming of hoof-beats approaching rapidly from the west of the common. As soon as they came into view she recognised the horses; they were racing, three of them almost neck and neck with the big black ahead by two lengths.

  They thundered towards her down the open stretch, riders crouched low with coats and feathers flying – and then it happened. Drawn by the noise, Tom’s small figure came rushing out into the clearing, out past the safety of the trees and straight into the path of the oncoming horses.

  ‘Tom!’ The girl gave a strangled cry of warning and threw herself forward in an attempt to reach him whilst knowing already that it was too late. Fear made her clumsy. Her foot became entangled in her cloak and she measured her length on the ground with a force that knocked the breath from her body so that she could do nothing but watch as the great sable horse bore down on the tiny figure of the child.

  But she had reckoned without the ingenuity of the blue-coated rider. He could have had no warning but he put the split second he did have to good use. Making no attempt to alter his direction, he rode on, allowing his horse’s forelegs to miss Tom by inches whilst leaning down to swoop on the child and hoist him clear of the ground by means of his stout collar.

  Sick with relief, the girl closed her eyes and let her head fall on to her arms. When she looked up again, all four horsemen were trotting back towards her with Tom perched high in the grip of his rescuer and chattering away with all the blissful unconcern of the very young.

  ‘I’m not frit,’ he announced boastfully. ‘I like horses. Please can I have it to hold?’

  The man laughed. ‘Well, if you’re sure you’re not frit …’ And he handed the reins into Tom’s inexpert grasp. ‘His name is Caesar. If you want to be his friend you should talk to him.’

  Obediently, Tom transferred the dangerously slackened reins into one chubby fist and patted the gleaming black neck. ‘Hello, Caesar. I’m Tom.’

  And the man laughed again. It was a curiously infectious sound and, looking up, the girl received a confused impression of long, lightly-curling black hair and a pale, fine-boned face alight with amusement. Then she realised that one of the party had dismounted and was offering his hand.

  ‘Let me help you,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘You’ve had a nasty shock.’

  She glanced up and liked what she saw. Fair hair framed a face set with intelligent dark grey eyes and a firm mouth, oddly at variance with his languid tone.

  She nodded. ‘Yes. I – I thought he was going to be killed.’

  ‘Which he very nearly was,’ remarked a cool, pleasant voice. But perhaps you’ll take better care in future.’ The blue-coated gentleman had ridden up and was passing Tom down to her.

  Too surprised to reply, she took the child without a word.

  ‘Crowie, did you see? I rode on the big horse. I rode it myself!’

  She held him tight and managed a weak smile. ‘Yes. Yes, I saw.’

  Tom inspected her with interest. ‘Was you frit, Crowie? I wasn’t.’

  ‘Of course you weren’t. And now I daresay you’d like to ride my Bess, wouldn’t you?’ It was Daniel who spoke; red-haired, freckled and grinning with cheerful sympathy.

  ‘Yes – oh yes!’ cried Tom. ‘Put me down, Crowie. I’m too big to be held.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think --’

  ‘But I want to!’

  He wriggled so much that she had to release him but directed a rueful smile at Daniel.

  ‘It’s simply that I would prefer he didn’t think he has only to court death under the hooves of a horse in order to be offered a ride on it.’

  He laughed. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll talk to him. And by the time you’ve stopped shaking, we’ll be back. Here, Giles – toss him up.’

  With a half-mocking lift of his brows, the fair-haired man lifted Tom and swung him up in front of Daniel.

  ‘He’ll be quite safe, you know,’ he told the girl as she watched them canter away. ‘And it’s better that he should see this as an adventure rather than have nightmares.’

  She considered this. ‘Yes. I daresay you’re right.’

  Then, a little reluctantly, she turned to Tom’s saviour and found herself impaled on a pair of curiously light blue eyes … like polished steel over-laid by the merest sliver of aquamarine and rendered all the more striking by the dark lashes framing them. They rested on her with a glint of satire and a strange intensity that, just for an instant, made her forget to breathe.

  ‘Oh,’ she thought. He was probably the best-looking man she had ever seen - and possibly the most intimidating.

  ‘Well, Mistress?’ The charming voice was edged with impatience.

  Acutely aware that her hair was straying in all directions and her gown and cloak adorned with fragments of mud and twig, she felt the blood rise to her skin and set her teeth, lifting her chin stubbornly.

  ‘I wished to thank you, sir,’ sh
e said carefully. ‘Had you not been so quick-thinking, Tom could have been badly hurt or even killed. I – I’m very grateful to you.’

  ‘Yes,’ came the bland reply. ‘You should be. As a nursemaid, I wouldn’t say you are a roaring success, would you?’

  ‘Short of chaining him to her wrist,’ objected the fair gentleman, ‘it’s difficult to see what she could have done.’

  But the girl had recovered her composure and needed neither defence nor to explain herself. Brown eyes resting kindly on her mentor, she said, ‘Don’t worry. I understand perfectly. It gave you a fright as well and you’re not quite yourself yet.’

  The blue gaze widened a little and, glancing round, the gentleman surprised a grin on the face of his soldier companion seated patiently some few paces behind.

  ‘You hear that, Matt? My nerves are all to pieces.’

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ grunted Matthew tersely.

  The younger man laughed and turned back to look at the girl. ‘If that remark was designed to put me in my place, I’m afraid it was wasted,’ he told her gently.

  ‘I can see that, ’ she shrugged. ‘But thank you for pointing it out.’

  It was perhaps fortunate that Daniel chose this moment to return and lower Tom to the ground. The girl took his hand and reminded him to say thank you. With an engaging smile, the little boy did as he was bidden and insisted on being lifted up to that he could give each horse a last pat. Giles bowed elegantly over the girl’s hand and climbed back into his saddle, while the dark-haired man showed his impatience by encouraging Caesar to fidget.

  ‘Are we finally ready?’ he asked. ‘Wonderful!’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Alex,’ said Daniel amicably. ‘What’s the hurry?’

  ‘The hurry,’ said Alexander Charles Deveril, crisply, ‘is that I’ve no mind to allow Caesar to take cold in this wind. The rest of you may be happy to linger – but I’m going.’