“We’ll be back in time for your birthday, and I promise to bring you a fine gift,” he told his sister.
“I’m not going to celebrate my birthday any longer,” Autumn told him dourly. “At least not until I am a married woman. I shall remain eighteen until then, Charlie, but if you should like to bring me a gift because you love me, then I shall accept it,” she told him, a twinkle in her eyes.
“You shall have your gift because I love you, sister,” he assured her. He was relieved to see that Autumn was shedding her initial grief over her father’s death. She would never forget Jemmie Leslie, but she realized life must continue onward. Hopefully their mother would arrive before winter set in, and together she and Autumn would heal. Charles Frederick Stuart could but imagine the sorrow the Duchess of Glenkirk was experiencing now. She had lost two husbands before she was twenty. His own father, Prince Henry Stuart, who had been her lover, had died two months after his own birth. She had been reluctant to remarry, but Jemmie Leslie would not take no for an answer. They had been wed for thirty-five years. How would she go on without him?
He rode to Worcester with his seven-year-old son by his side, surrounded by his own men-at-arms. Worcestershire was royalist country, but it did not hurt to be careful. About them the countryside lay peaceful in the mid-autumn sunshine. The fields were harvested, and the gleaners busily at work in them. The orchards had been picked clean of their apples and pears. Cattle and sheep grazed on the fading green hillsides. They reached the town just before sunset, putting up at The Crown and Stag, a large, comfortable inn where the duke was well known.
They went to church the following morning in the cathedral by the river. Freddie was wide-eyed at the great altar, the soaring arches, and the magnificent stained-glass windows. Afterwards they set about to find the thread his wife had requested. It was more difficult than he had anticipated, but finally in the shop of a small and insignificant mercer they found thread. A great deal of black, as Bess had warned him, but still a goodly supply of white and colors. The Duke of Lundy bought as much as the mercer would let him have, paying a premium gladly for it, however. Still, who knew when he would get into town again, or if this mercer would even still have thread.
He spent the rest of the day showing his young son about the beautiful town. Frederick Stuart had never been to Worcester before. In fact, he had been nowhere other than his relations’ homes. Seeing his son had a good supper, Charlie put the lad to bed. Then he went to join his friends, which was his true reason for coming to Worcester. When they could, the local gentlemen met to exchange news and gossip about the civil war, and the latest of Cromwell’s edicts. The men sat together in a discreet private room, safe from spies and protected by the innkeeper, who was an ardent royalist.
“They say Dunbar was a debacle, and the king was beaten by an army a quarter the size of his,” Lord Hailey remarked. “How the hell could such a thing happen? The rumor is, the king will leave Scotland and go to his sister’s court in Holland, or to his mother in Paris.”
“In answer to your first question, Hailey, the Scots left their position of strength in the hills to come down to the plain. They did it once before at the first battle of Dunbar, several hundred years ago. They do not, it seems, learn from their mistakes. They lost that first battle for the same reason,” the Duke of Lundy told his companions.
“How do you know so much about it, Charlie?” asked his friend, Lord Moreland.
“My mother sent a messenger down from Scotland to tell my sister that her father had been killed at Dunbar. The messenger was one of the few survivors from my stepfather’s troop. He told me all about the battle. When Jemmie Leslie fell, his people took his body and withdrew. You know the reputation Cromwell’s men have for piking the wounded, and stealing everything they can from the bodies. The Glenkirk men didn’t intend to leave their duke to such tender mercies. They took his body, gathered up the horses, and made their way home.”
“Jemmie Leslie dead? I can hardly believe it,” Lord Moreland said.
“God rest him,” Lord Hailey, who had been the Duke of Glenkirk’s contemporary, replied. “I remember him trying to court your mother, and hunting with your grandfather and uncles. He was a good man! Damn Cromwell and his revolution!”
“You sound like my sister,” Charlie said with a small chuckle, “although she refers to ‘Cromwell. and his pocky Roundheads.’ ”
“Not publicly, I hope,” Lord Hailey said, concerned.
“I have warned her about curbing her tongue,” the duke said. “It will be better when our mother arrives.”
“Your mother is coming down from Scotland? God’s blood, man! She’ll never make it with all those parliamentary troopers running amuck about the countryside. Can you not stop her?” Lord Hailey demanded.
“Nay, I cannot,” Charlie said simply. “She’ll travel well protected, I assure you. As for the rumors of my cousin, Charles, fleeing Scotland, put no stock in it. Charles has not yet been properly crowned. He will remain at least until that notable event has taken place.”
“But Cromwell’s people hold Edinburgh,” Lord Moreland reasoned, draining his tankard of wine.
“Scots kings are traditionally crowned at Scone, and our forces hold Scone,” the duke answered.
“And when the king is formally crowned, will Scotland rise up to aid him?” Lord Plympton said.
“I don’t know,” Charlie said quietly, and he refilled his own tankard. “Scotland has been torn for years by religious strife. I would not be surprised if they had not had enough of war and desire nothing more than peace. If this desire is stronger than their nationalism, and loyalty to King Charles II, then we in England must take up the king’s banner to rid ourselves of these Roundheads and Puritans.”
The air was blue with the haze from their pipes as the men smoked their Virginia tobacco, drank wine and October ale, and talked among themselves. The English were, they knew, just as tired of war. Would anyone have the energy to overthrow Cromwell and the Parliamentarians? Most of them had not trusted the Scots Stuart kings who had followed old Queen Bess almost fifty years ago. Still, this second Charles Stuart had been born in England and was well liked. He was, to their minds, the Stuarts’ first real English king. There were those sitting among them who considered that if the late Prince Henry, who had been King James I’s eldest son, had been permitted to wed with the beautiful widowed Marchioness of Westleigh, now Jasmine Leslie, it would have been this Charles Frederick Stuart seated with them here tonight who would have been their king. And he would not have alienated the parliament and their Puritan allies the way his uncle, Charles I, had done. Charles Frederick Stuart would not have lost his head.
“So,” grumbled Lord Plympton, “we must sit here helpless while we are governed by a bunch of commoners who have had the temerity to dissolve the House of Lords and claim to have abolished our monarchy. Bah, say I, to all of them!”
His companions laughed. They felt just as helpless as did their companion, but for now they were forced to wait for their king. Suddenly the door to their private room flew open to admit the plump and breathless Lord Billingsly.
“Get you home, those of you who can!” he gasped. “There are Roundhead troopers been seen in the area. And the rumor is, they are being led by Sir Simon Bates, the cold-hearted devil who slaughtered Sir Gerald Croft’s family over in Oxfordshire!”
“Who told you that, Billingsly?” Lord Moreland demanded.
“I saw the
