Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

‘Then it is fortunate that it did so. I would have been disappointed if you had departed without word.’ She smiled. ‘Do sit down, Thomas.’

‘I would prefer to stand.’

‘As you wish,’ said Madeleine, taking a seat.

‘May I know why you asked me to call?’

‘Thomas, as I wrote in my letter, I have been unhappy since we last met. I feel you deserve an explanation.’

‘An explanation, madam? I recall nothing that requires explaining.’

Madeleine almost leapt out of her chair. Her eyes were blazing and her voice harsh. ‘Thomas, how much of this have I to put up with? You know perfectly well why I have asked you here. Kindly make it no more difficult than it already is.’

Thomas inclined his head. ‘Very well. I shall listen to whatever you have to say.’ Apparently satisfied, Madeleine sat down again. Thomas did the same.

She sat with her hands in her lap, back straight, looking directly into his eyes. ‘I have told you that I came to London from Hertfordshire, where my father was a parson. That is true. I have also told you that I once rejected a proposal of marriage and have never received another. That is partly true.’ Thomas raised an eyebrow. ‘The whole truth is that I have never had a suitor at all.’

‘That I find hard to believe,’ interrupted Thomas.

‘Let me finish, Thomas, please. Then believe what you wish and judge me as you see fit.’ Thomas nodded, and she went on, ‘In the autumn of 1643 a troop of the king’s guards arrived in our village on their way from Newbury to Oxford. I was eighteen, unmarried and largely innocent of the ways of the world.’

She saw his look. ‘I know. Eighteen, the country at war, young men fighting and dying and taking their pleasures when and where they could. I find it hard to believe myself. But remember I had no mother and my father was a village parson, unworldly and protective of his only daughter.’

For a minute she was silent, as if preparing herself for the rest of the story. When it came, it came in a torrent. ‘I was on my way home from a walk in the fields when the soldiers saw me. There were six of them. Their blue jackets and broad hats are fixed for ever in my mind’s eye. Their leader rode a fine chestnut mare. They surrounded me on their horses and taunted me with insults and threats. I couldn’t escape. I was terrified and started screaming. That’s when they dismounted. One of them held me down while the others took it in turns to rape me. When they rode off they were laughing. I lay on the ground, curled up like a baby, bleeding heavily and whimpering with pain. I must have been there for hours. Eventually I was found by a farmer who took me home.’

With a lace handkerchief she wiped away the tears running down her cheeks. ‘It was weeks before I could walk without pain and a year before I ventured out alone. And I was told that I would never have children. That is why there have been no suitors and why I left the village as soon as my father died. Everyone in the village knew what had happened. Some were unkind to us. Others tried to help, but who wants a barren wife?’ Again, she dabbed at the tears. ‘There was no handsome soldier, no proposal, no rejection.’

Thomas sat quietly searching for the right words. Eventually he said, ‘Madeleine, you have suffered in a way few have suffered. To have survived and to be able to recount your terrible experience is testimony to your courage.’ Madeleine dabbed at her eyes and smiled weakly. Thomas went on, ‘Every war brings tragedy and every tragedy is personal. I was at Newbury. It was an unspeakable affair. Thousands dead and maimed – each death a tragedy for someone – and for nothing. Not a thing.’

‘You didn’t tell me you were a soldier.’

‘I wasn’t. I was acting as the king’s cryptographer. Sending out encoded orders, that sort of thing. I was never in real danger, but I saw some of the battle. It was bloody and futile. The men who raped you would have been part of it. Violence breeds violence and soldiers are violent.’

‘When you kissed me, I thought that, at last, I had recovered. Then my courage deserted me. No wonder you were angry. Am I forgiven?’

‘No forgiveness is necessary. It is I who behaved badly.’

‘I was dreading telling you my story, Thomas. Now that I have, I feel purged of a terrible secret.’ She hesitated. ‘Would you care to try behaving badly again or are you determined to board a coach?’

‘The thought of our behaving badly together is certainly more appealing than an uncomfortable coach, Madeleine, but only if you’re sure your courage has returned.’

Madeleine’s reply was to lead him by the hand to her bedroom. She locked the door and turned to face him. ‘There is one more thing. The scars are not only in my mind. I want you to see this first.’

Her fingers went to the ribbon at her throat. When she untied it, her dress fell away to expose her breasts. She pulled the dress down to her hips. A long, jagged scar ran from her breastbone to her abdomen. ‘They said I’d get another each time I screamed. I didn’t scream again.’

Thomas moved towards her and held her tightly, his mouth at her ear. ‘It is nothing,’ he whispered. ‘Can the bad behaviour begin now?’

By midday, Thomas was in two minds as to whether to board the coach that afternoon; by two o’clock he had decided that there was much to be said for staying a little longer in London, and by four o’clock he could see no reason at all to hurry home. Propped up on one elbow, he traced the outline of Madeleine’s face with a finger. ‘I shall not enquire how you come to speak French when making love, Madeleine Stewart, but for a lady who professes to be innocent of the world you have remarkable skill. And I’m not talking about your painting, fine though that is.’

‘It takes two to dance and two to make love, Mr Hill. And, despite being a novice, I find myself in the hands of an expert. Would you care for another carole?’

It was dark by the time Thomas forced himself out of bed and into his clothes. He had left his bags packed for the journey at the Carringtons’, and Mary would be wondering where on earth he had got to. ‘I must go now, Madeleine,’ he said, stooping to kiss her as she lay on the bed watching him. ‘I shall call tomorrow. Would two in the afternoon be convenient?’

‘It would. Almost as convenient as one. And don’t be late. I do not care to be kept waiting.’

‘So I’ve been told. Until tomorrow.’

Agnes had tactfully disappeared, so Thomas let himself out. He walked swiftly down Fleet Street and into the Strand, thinking of the beautiful lady he had just left and would see again the next day. Suddenly, life had taken on a new aspect for Thomas Hill and the future held a good deal more promise than it had at breakfast. Romsey could wait.

A WOOLLEN SCARF covered the Dutchman’s face from the eyes down. It was better that passers-by should think that he was trying not to inhale the city’s coal smoke or that he feared an infection than that it should be seen. He was not often on the streets in daylight and he did not want his face to be noted.

He had been watching the house in Piccadilly and had followed Thomas from there to the lane. He had waited patiently on the corner of Fleet Street for him to emerge from the house. If he did not emerge, the plan might be in jeopardy. Hopefully, the woman would soon turn him out as she had last time and all would be well.

But she did not turn him out and it was a long wait. By the time Hill stepped out of the house and into the lane it was dark. The Dutchman knew the name of this mark. He had been told to remember it for the future. It would have been easy to dispose of him there and then, but he had no instructions to do so. That time would no doubt come.