Anne Herries - Satan's Mark

‘I fear Ralph’s manners have not been what they ought,’ the man went on, bringing her wandering thoughts back to him. ‘He was clumsy. But, though we have broken our journey at yonder inn, we are not drunk on wine, only the pleasure of being home again. Nor does poor Ralph carry the mark of the devil, despite his looks, which, God knows, do not favour him!’

Annelise sucked in her breath. Her eyes opened wide. Was he insulting his companion? What would the man he called Ralph say now? Her heart raced with a mixture of apprehension and something else…something she was far from understanding.

‘Damn you, Justin!’ Ralph said, glaring at him. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. ‘I should call you out, knave that you are—and I would if I did not know it to be useless.’

Justin Rochefort laughed, his white teeth gleaming in the sunlight. He had the alertness and vitality of a man used to living by his wits—the look of a battle-hardened soldier. But when he laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners, Annelise glimpsed another, very different character. There was a charm about him then that made her heart skip a beat.

‘No, no, my friend, I beg you,’ he said. ‘Why should I kill the best companion I have ever known over a mere trifle? I do not mind your ugly face—but I fear you have distressed this lady.’

Suddenly both the other men laughed. ‘Ralph is a clumsy bear as always,’ the third and youngest said. He swept off his hat and made the ladies an elegant bow. ‘Forgive us, ma’am, mistress. We have been remiss. I am Sir Robert Harris, the son of the late Sir Richard of Longton Hall, come to reclaim my inheritance—and my friends Colonel Ralph Saunders and—’

‘Nay, nay, Rob,’ Justin put in, cutting off his flow. ‘We tarry overlong. Pray let us be on our way without more ado. Forgive us, ladies, we are already late.’ He bowed to Annelise once more.

His will seemed to be the other two men’s law. He turned away and they followed, laughing at some private jest as they mounted their horses and rode off.

‘Well!’ exclaimed Mistress Hale with a sour look after them. ‘So that is Sir Richard’s son. He was no more than a youth when his mother took him to France to join his father, after the estate was sequestered at the end of the war. I had heard his father had died, and that the estate had been restored to Sir Robert by the King. Much good may it do him!’

‘It has stood empty for two years now, has it not?’

‘Since Matthew Clarke died. God rest his soul!’ Mistress Hale crossed herself piously. ‘He was a good man and kept the estate well…but after his wife and son died of a fever he had no will to live.’

Annelise nodded. Matthew Clarke had been her uncle’s friend and a constant visitor to the house: she had liked him and his wife very well—indeed, there had once been a suggestion that the two families should be united by marriage, joining their estates as one. If David Clarke had not died, she might have been his wife even now—and waiting in fear to be cast out of her home! For no one could be sure what would happen now that the King had come back and the old order had been turned upside down.

Matthew Clarke had bought the estate fairly after it had been sequestered by Parliament, and perhaps it was best that he had died, leaving no heir, before all the wrangling began.

King Charles II had returned to England in May of that year, making a glorious entry into London and welcomed by people who had grown tired of the rigid rules laid down by Parliament and the Puritan faction, who had forbidden so many of the pleasures enjoyed by simple folk. Now that Charles was restored to the throne, there were many who lay abed at night and trembled. Some were in possession of estates taken from their rightful owners by dubious means, and could only wait to discover if they would be turned out by returning exiles. Others had paid good money for their land and were prepared to fight for their right of ownership.

Despite the outward rejoicing, England was still an uneasy land, with many still holding a grudge in their hearts and old hatreds simmering just beneath the surface. People spoke in whispers of godly men dragged out of their homes to face a beating or violent death, for many of those who had returned with His Majesty had come with a lust for vengeance against those who had caused their downfall.

Annelise was thoughtful as she left the village and began to walk towards her home. The Woodward estate, since it had belonged to her father, was, she supposed, hers by right. Lord Henry Woodward had fought for the King, leaving his beloved wife and only child alone in the huge house the Woodwards had owned since the days of the Tudors, to be cared for by their faithful women and a few men who had been too weak to march to war.

Annelise had been little more than a babe when the war began. She vaguely recalled a man’s laughing face as he kissed her and told her to mind her mother until he came home again, but though she’d wept when she had learned of his death at Naseby, she had not truly mourned him. How could she mourn a man she’d hardly known?

In truth, what she’d truly mourned, had she but known it, had been the absence of laughter in the house. Where there had been joy, music and happy faces, there was now only duty and solemn words. She had once been a merry child, a little naughty sometimes, but blessed with a sunny nature that made her truly loved. Over the years Annelise had come to accept the teachings of her uncle and aunt, but somehow in her heart she retained the core of joy that had been her birthright. Sometimes she rebelled against the doctrines forced on her and longed for that other life. Yet she could not but be grateful for her uncle’s care of her.

When at last the war had ended, her father’s estate might have gone the way of many others had her uncle not stepped in to help his sister. He had claimed his right to be Lady Woodward’s protector—and, because he was a close friend of Oliver Cromwell, had been granted the stewardship of her husband’s estate. He and his wife had come to live at Woodward House, and when Annelise’s mother had gradually died of a broken heart had assumed the guardianship of his niece.

Annelise had never had reason to complain of her uncle’s behaviour towards her. He was a stern man, but honest and fair in his judgements. Nothing had ever been said of her inheritance, but she supposed that would happen when negotiations for her marriage were begun. She knew her uncle had recently started to consider the idea again—indeed, had it not been for the Lord Protector’s death in 1658, it would probably have been arranged long before this. She was almost twenty years of age, and more than old enough to be married.

Sir Hugh had been greatly affected by the Protector’s death, which had followed that of Matthew Clarke by a few months, and was spending more and more time alone, reading from the Bible and neglecting the affairs of the estate. Annelise knew her aunt was worried about him, but there was nothing they could do—Sir Hugh had never been a man to take kindly to helpful suggestions from his wife.

Annelise frowned. She had not given much thought to marriage before this, but now found herself wondering what kind of a man her uncle would choose to be her husband. She hoped it would be someone she could like and trust.

For a moment the picture of a man’s laughing eyes flashed into her mind, but she dismissed it at once. It was unlikely that her uncle would choose a follower of the King he despised. Besides, she could not wish for such an alliance. She had been taught to think ill of such men, though now and then she rebelled in her heart. Her own father had been one of them, and her dear mother had died of love for him, so they could not all be as evil as her uncle claimed, could they?