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In the parlor Livia dressed the queen in hat, veil, and cape. It was not until they were on the quayside, and Matthew calling a wherry for them, that Livia took a quick step to Alys, who was watching her husband order the sailors to hoist the sails for his departure.
“I’ll come back,” Livia promised.
“Don’t. There’s nothing for you here. And I don’t want to see you.”
Alys could not see Livia’s face through the thick veil, but she knew that she was smiling.
PHILIPSNORTON, SOMERSET, SUMMER 1685
Ned, warned by the Bridgwater harbormaster that anyone embarking from the port while the rebel army held the town would be arrested in London as a spy, decided that Rowan would have to stay with the troops as far as Bath, where he could get her a passage on the stagecoach. He could not deny that she was in her element: fishing in the rivers, hunting in the woods, and poaching in the fields as she followed the army, free at last, to run wild in the countryside where no one questioned her, and all the normal rules of landlords and gamekeepers were set aside. She made friends with the women who were following their husbands and shared her catch with them. They treated her as a strange but helpful creature: some said that she was of the fairy folk—for how else could a lad stroll down to the river without even a rod and a line and come back with a string of river trout? Some said that the lad was a runaway slave, with all the skills of an unknown people. Some said that he was a witch and would overlook the royal army, who would all fall asleep before him.
The army marched ahead of the camp followers during the day, but in the evening, when the officers requisitioned beds in the houses of sympathizers and the men camped in their fields, Rowan found Ned and the three sergeants who were his messmates and brought them dinner.
“Thank you.” The words were forced from him, as she skinned and boned a rabbit, caught in her snare, and stewed it in the kettle on the communal fire. She grinned at him, knowing that he was fighting to hide his hunger after a long day’s march.
“You are welcome,” she said to him graciously. “It was my people that fed your people, when you first came in the big ships.”
Ned nodded, knowing that she had made herself indispensable to his comfort and that he was seeming as sulky as a boy. “You can sleep here tonight and follow tomorrow.”
She nodded, as if she were not blazingly triumphant. “Whatever you say,Sannup. I have made an agreement with one of the washerwomen and she will launder your shirts and dry them as we move, and I will get her and her husband their dinner.”
“Aye, you think you have bested me and got your way. The regular royal army has mustered and marched south and is so close that the city of Bath have closed their gates to us, so I can’t leave you there as I planned. But truly, it’s time I sent you away. The Earl of Argyll has failed, and we’re on our own now.”
“He was defeated?” Rowan asked. “Have they killed everyone? Did they take his scalp?”
Ned shook his head in dismay at her idea of warfare. “No. He’ll be executed, he’s been captured, his army gave up without him. If we’ve heard it here, they’ll know all about it in London. Monmouth is on his own.”
“Have we lost?” she asked calmly, as if victory or defeat were the same to her.
“We’ll have to move fast. We have to win our victory before the northern army turns around and comes against us. The duke should be picking out his battlefield, and you should be somewhere safe.”
“We have to fight the battle at once?”
“We have to get to London before Dumbarton’s army. We can hold London against them. Especially if we capture the king and queen. But some French lord is commanding a royal army and has come against us. We’ve got more to face than the militia. We’re going to be in a battle against a royal army any day.”
“And then we’ve won?” she confirmed, and made him smile.
“Oh, aye, you’re a rebel now,” he said.
They were camped in fields on either side of the George Inn, where Monmouth had made his headquarters. The officers had beds in the inn; the troops rolled themselves up in their jackets and capes and slept on the ground. Ned lay on his back, his head resting on his pack, and Rowan lay beside him, her back against him for warmth.He folded his arms across his chest so that he did not wrap his arm around her and cushion her head on his shoulder. He looked up at the pale summer sky and the pinpricks of stars. He thought that he was in grave danger, in a world filled with uncertainty. He thought he had never known such joy and heartache at the same time.
In the dawn light, she was gone—down to the river for her prayers and washing. She came back as the troops were stirring and eating last night’s bread for breakfast with a cup of mulled ale sent out from Monmouth’s breakfast table, when Ned heard the rattle of gunfire from farther up the road.
“Stand to!” he shouted to his troop. “Form up!”
He was pleased to see they had their weapons to hand; they were ready in moments. A scout came storming down the main street on his horse, flung himself out of the saddle and dived through the open door of the inn. Moments later the duke himself came running out.
“Á Monmouth!” he yelled and seized the reins of his horse, shouting orders to his officers.
“You go behind the inn and stay out of sight,” Ned snapped at Rowan as he led his troop out of the field to join the regiment. “Disappear, Rowan!”
She nodded and he saw her loping run towards the ramshackle stables at the back of the inn, as he led his troops in a steady trot out of the field and up the road where he could hear the sound of a battle and the first roar of a cannon. In moments they had left the lane, filing through a gate that Monmouth ordered to be lifted from its hinges so it stood wide. Monmouth and his mounted officers led the way across two fields, tracking a path through the growing wheat, forcing their way through a hedge on the far side. Ned could hear the fighting at the crossroads, north of the town, at the rebel barricade. Somehow, the royal army had come upon them in the early hours for a surprise attack on this outpost.
In a fine piece of generalship, Monmouth resisted the temptation to charge down the main street to support the barricade. Cleverly, he led his troop around the skirmish. Ned’s raw troops turned their heads to the sound of firing.
“March on,” Ned said quietly. “Eyes front!”
Discipline was good, the order passed in a low voice down the line. Ned nodded at his men and saw them grip the handles of their weapons—pikes, sickles, and in a few cases, nothing but pitchforks with sharpened tines.
