“His lordship’s family finally comes to rest on his land,” he said simply. “It took a piece of work t’find ’em, they all buried with the worst of record. And unmarked. There was a reverend in London old enough to remember when they were brought. And what we found after all these years is barely enough to bury.”
“Who are they?” she asked.
“My lord Robert Wescott and his three eldest sons, James, Vincent, and Ronald. Milady Anne rests yonder … She was killed on her own land and therefore buried by her servants.”
Jocelyn was shocked. She was aware of the barest facts, that her ladyship was killed at Braeswood and the Wescott men at some other site of war. She hadn’t given much thought to the family ties and dire circumstances that bound Trent to his past and these people.
She imagined the trauma that surrounded their deaths, made worse because they were not yet at rest. She felt a stab of pain in her chest, thinking about all of them dying and leaving him alone and without family. And on the day of his return, heavy with this burden of seeing them buried on their own land, she had shunned and scorned him.
“I couldn’t have known he carried this burden,” she said, half to herself and half to Avery. “I thought him surly and unkind, but I couldn’t know he was grieving anew. Avery, how did this happen?”
The man’s tired old eyes seemed to crinkle the more at their corners and his face was damp from the rain. “ ’Twas war, mum. They all died in defense of their king and property. I was not at hand to see that Robert and his sons took as many Roundheads with them. I was occupied with the welfare of my young ward.”
“But where were you and Sir Trent?” she asked, wondering how these two had been spared.
Avery sighed deeply, his eyes growing moist and his voice vibrating with emotion. “On a chase designed to keep him off the point of a sword. Beg pardon, mum, but I can’t speak of it.”
She watched in a stupor as the digging slowly progressed, the day darkening with both clouds and nightfall. “You may not finish here before dark,” she murmured.
“They’ll not spend another night ill at ease, mum. We won’t stop here until they’re home.”
“I should go to him,” she stated, turning suddenly. She fled back to the manor quickly, feeling helpless but driven at least to find him and offer some soothing. She pushed the hood of her cape to her shoulders and went through the kitchens in the direction of the study where she thought she might find him. Entering the hall, she caught sight of Enid. The woman’s face was fallen and she was carrying bundles. She was dressed in a black smock and her eyes were red-rimmed as if she’d been crying.
“Enid?” Jocelyn began.
The woman halted and reached out a hand to grasp Jocelyn’s, not waiting for the question and clearly grieving to a great degree. “Aye, it’s a sad day. We’ll not mourn as if for the newly departed, for each of us accepted this a long while ago. But I think he’ll not argue if we show our pain and keep the house still for a brief space o’ time. I never dreamed he’d bring ’em home. I didn’t see how he could …” she trailed off, moving away and mumbling as she went.
Jocelyn’s heart was pounding with anxiety, thinking this the poorest possible time to have been difficult. The faster she could find him, the quicker she could relieve her own conscience. She dashed to his study and, finding it empty, ran up the stairs to his chamber. She knocked lightly, and hearing no response, she slowly opened the door.
He stood a great distance across the room, still wearing his dark coat and looking out the window. He did not turn toward her as she entered and she beckoned softly to his back. “Sir Trent?”
Still he presented his back and she made a quick decision to make do with that. She knew he was aware of her and reasoned that at worst he would turn and bark at her to leave him. But if she spoke gently and quickly, he would at least hear her before he cast her out.
“I beg indulgence, milord, for I was raised by a religious man and taught to spit at women of such ill-fated circumstance, who enjoy the pleasures of marriage without the benefit of a priest. When Master Tyson even suggested that I should yield this life and you to the preferable role of wife to him, I wondered enviously at a life in which I would never be ridiculed. But truly I accused you falsely, for you have not punished me, nor have you shamed me. I have been ungrateful and spiteful, and I seek forgiveness.”
His stance was relaxed and he seemed calm, but still he did not turn from the window. She knew that he was taken with the burial below and she didn’t know how to offer both apology for her coldness upon his return and comfort for the tragic memories he must be experiencing now.
“My lord, I perceive it was small of me to be tempted by a simple man’s idea of virtue, and indeed, until I heard Master Tyson’s proposal, I did not think myself poorly kept. I, too, dreamt of your return … and it was not dreadful in my dreams.”
Trent shifted a bit, but did not turn. He lowered his head and moved his hand along the windowsill.
“I cannot put aside my less than tender words, but neither did I know that you carried this trouble upon your return. I could have borne any measure of your discontent had I but known how grievous your homecoming. Sir Trent, I beg of you, forgive my harsh words and allow me to help you bear your sadness.” She felt herself begin to lose heart, for he made no motion to acknowledge her. “I would not chastise you for your secrets, but if you deem me worthy of your confidence, I would hold true anything you give into my care. And I pray you don’t hate me overmuch for Master Tyson’s chance visit, for my refusal to him was not a question of virtue or decency, but a question of love.” She fell silent for a moment and saw that his head was raised and he was listening to her. “Master Tyson cannot offer me anything I covet, Sir Trent. It is you I have come to love.”
He stood another moment and then slowly turned to face her. She noticed, even at the great distance in the darkening room, that his face was haggard and his eyes were moist. A painful tear traced its way down his cheek, and slowly he opened his arms. She flew to him with a joyous cry and was wrapped quickly in his strong embrace. He buried his face in her neck and hair and held her gratefully, almost desperately. “Jocelyn, my sweet. I have only wanted you to trust me,” he said hoarsely, his voice cracking with emotion.
She held him feverishly, planting small kisses on his face and weeping at his emotion. He would feel no resistance or passive acceptance from her at this hour, and she yielded herself completely to his need for closeness. He had, in his grief, lost his preference for lovemaking, but he clung to her as if his state was as desperate as hers, as if they were completely alone and without any other source of comfort. She felt the dampness of his tears on her shoulder and breast and knew that his pain was great.
“I will never doubt you again, my love,” she whispered.
The hour grew very late and the house was quiet. The graves had been tended and Enid fretted over the absence of flowers due to the cold weather. The men who had braved the cold rain to see the job done sat with Enid in the kitchens and drank hot spiced wine. She gave them thick stew and warm bread to help coax some heat back into their bones.
In the master bedchamber Jocelyn sat in a great chair, a heavy quilt wrapped around her chemise, sipping a coddled brandy while Trent drank his without dilution. They had lain for a brace of hours in each other’s arms as the room grew dimmer and finally settled into the black of night. Then he rose, almost as if he sensed the task below the window had been completed, and called for Enid.
She confirmed that the burial was finished. Trent openly sighed his relief and his whole disposition changed. He asked Enid to deliver them drinks and laid a blazing fire. Then in a firm and very natural voice and without being asked, he told Jocelyn his story.
“My father took too many men away from the manor, but then his mood was high and he envisioned victory. He even joked of having a coronation in our hall, we were so near to Worcester. It was Lady Anne, my mother, who would not sanction my fighting
. I was but eight-and-ten and saw myself a man fully drawn and was highly insulted by her mothering. I was the last child she bore, and I believed she insisted on making me weak with her constant interference and worry.”
He laughed suddenly as if amused by the memory. “She was a small woman. Smaller, I think, than you, Jocelyn. But she was possessed of a fiery temper that the devil himself would not challenge. In most cases, my father would speak and she would retreat like the obedient and faithful servant she was, letting him play the role of her lord and master. But now and again she would rear her head and balk, and her voice may have come soft and delicate, but it was in no way meek. Betimes you could hear the stone walls of this house rattle with the strength of her determination. When she made it her goal to be heard, not a man in this state would question her will.”
Jocelyn could do naught but picture the woman in the tapestry with her family around her, and she envied the adoration Lady Anne must have had for her husband and sons.
“When the other men left, we had inadequate protection here, but we were not troubled. They would win, after all. And the victory would begin here, in our own home. But before long, word was brought to us that the Royalists were beaten and fleeing in droves and Parliamentarians were on the hunt for Charles. Braeswood would be assaulted and there were not enough men-at-arms to hold our walls. My mother bid me go with Avery, assess the trouble, and attempt to bring our men home to defend us. I went so gratefully, paying little mind to her parting tears and warnings, not knowing at all what plan her devious mind construed.”
“But, Trent. What plan? She needed swift aid and sent the best man she knew.”
“No, my love. She sent me away knowing I probably could not find a few soldiers in the disastrous misadventure of the battle. She knew Braeswood would fall and did not want me sacrificed. For herself, she could have fled but would not leave her home without her entire family. She had the few remaining servants help her place some valued family possessions in hidden closets and vaults behind the walls and stairwells. She knew the hall would be taken, the residents killed, and the house pillaged. It was as if she knew that her husband and sons were dead, and that she would follow. Her wisdom was uncanny and her senses more keen than I can yet describe.
“I was on the road several hours before it was clear to me what she’d done. Avery made futile attempts to deny her treachery, but at my insistence we doubled back to find Braeswood overcome with Cromwell’s army and smoke rising from the parapets. Then we made swift tracks to our nearest neighbors, the Kerrs, to find them in like straits. But while we waited and watched under cover of brush, the Roundheads left Dearborn. And with them they carried the bodies of my father and brothers draped over horses.”
“Oh, Trent, you saw them killed?”
“It was a long while before I could say what actually happened, but the claim is that Lord Kerr offered first to hide them, then turned them over to the army to save his hide. They made a quick deal: Kerr would be left alone if he would betray his neighbors. He grabbed the offer quickly and stayed loyal thence to the Protectorate. Braeswood was plundered and many people were killed. My mother’s tapestries and a few worthy artifacts were left undiscovered, but the bulk of my family’s movable wealth was taken. The servants buried my mother; I was never to see her again.”
“She saved your life,” Jocelyn said softly.
“For over ten years I have grieved that she did not let me stay and fight, that I could not die beside her. I believe she wielded her own sword against her enemy, but however she met her end, I trust she did not plead for mercy but faced them with more courage than I could have.”
He was quiet and solemn as he pondered the memory of his mother’s death.
“Have you wondered at my association with thieves?” he asked. “I had nowhere to hide and could not get out of England easily with the trouble that was afoot. My rich home was destroyed and there was no money. Everywhere we looked, we found old friends in hiding or already gone. We tried to find Royalist forces in Oxford and Cambridge, but to no avail. Half-starved and completely discouraged, Avery and I found ourselves amongst a group of highwaymen in the south of England. They demanded high payment in return for their aid.
“We spent the better part of two years robbing those rich coaches that once had carried us along the country roads. I was not to return to my home ground during that time, so I consoled myself that I was repaying some of the injustice I felt. The only ones who prospered in England then were loyal to the Protectorate. And I was one of those to plunder their coffers and pull the jewels off their throats. Foolishly, I let my name drop more than once, as if letting the victims know that they were being punished by a noble would fearfully weaken their tyrannical hold on my country.”
Jocelyn watched him judiciously and felt safe in asking questions. “And did you ever … were you ever …”
“Did I do murder?” he aided her. She nodded timidly. “I was certainly guilty by association. Some of those criminals we rode with were brutal and thirsty for blood. For myself, I killed more than once, but each time it was the only option. It was the killing that drove us out of England to France. We thought to use our booty to buy a station close to the king and join Charles.
“Less than a month in that country passed before I was taken prisoner by a French guard and convicted without evidence for a murder I had no hand in. Avery was out of his head with fear and sought to gather influence from exiled nobles to help me, but nobles lived on French hospitality and only a handful of English could sway the government. I was going to hang. I almost felt the rope around my neck.
“But the old warhorse was not to be outdone. He sought out a man whose name we were given before leaving England. Monsieur Tronnier Laurant, skilled thief and assassin.” He laughed suddenly. “I don’t know what Master Avery expected, but Sir Troy was a lad. A tall, slender reed with floppy brass locks. I was only a wish over twenty years and Troy was yet four years younger. But he was already rich from his criminal toils and wily with back-roads wisdom. He had me freed before the hangman could claim me.”
“How did he manage?” she asked.
“Troy had kept himself alive by stealing since he was a small boy, and when he had achieved some skill at his craft, he wisely wiggled his way into prestigious circles and offered his trade to those politicians and merchants who needed information, thefts performed, missing people recovered, ransoms delivered, and the like. He dirtied his hands for the prissy aristocrats who had no means to carry out their illegal needs. And he had one goal—to get close to the highest officials in the kingdom to ply his trade as honorably as possible for kings and earls. With my claim to noble blood and his money and skill, we found Charles Stuart’s wandering court.
“We did all manner of things for a starving and paupered king and his generals. We spied, stole, pirated, and, now and again, soldiered legally. Time was spent equally upon warring ships and pirate ships. We were both knighted by Prince Rupert, but Troy ignores his title and will never tie himself to men and property. He scorns the very nobles who pay him in gold and influence because he knows most of them are cowardly fools. He is committed to the life he’s made for himself. He happens to like what he does.”
“But he steals and—”
“He is the link between the noble class and the criminal class. When a rich earl has need of protection or some assault on an enemy, it is not unusual to find Sir Troy walking the halls of Newgate in search of an army. He is a commander of ragged criminal brigades … but when he serves, the job is done well, and what those men do when they’re in his service is controlled. Betimes they are violent, but not just for sport. There is always a need and a goal. He is not a common criminal. He is a brilliant one. And he selects his commitments with care; he has been known to refuse to accommodate a treacherous man who has no sense of justice of any kind. And Sir Troy remembers his betters well. He watches the monarchy as closely as it watches him.”
“And yet he is your fr
iend. Is he this committed to you because he helped you once, or because you helped him get near the king?” she asked.
“I was trained to soldier as a boy while Troy was taught to steal. When we slithered along back roads to spy, he was the expert. On a battlefield or on one of Rupert’s ships, I was the teacher and protector. We taught each other and saved each other many times. In this instance, possibly this time only, he aids me.”
He filled his glass and sat beside her near the hearth. “I was in the stable with Troy and four other men. One of them was William. What we do is illegal and dangerous, and this will never absolve me, but I call it justice.
“I was not with the men who halted the Trendell coach, for I knew the Trendell family and worried that they would know me even with my face blacked with coal. The brooch that was stolen from Lady Trendell had been stolen from this house during the siege and sold to Lord Trendell. Kerr had access to this property, and he had need of money. Much of his wealth was pilfered from these halls. I wanted it back. But I don’t know who killed the lady. I suspect her driver, but there is no way to be certain.
“I have my eye on those possessions that were stolen from my family and a few of Lord Kerr’s more striking baubles. I am to pay him a retainer for keeping this property, and I am paying it from his own purse.”
“But the murders,” she prompted.
“There is to be no murder done in this effort,” he said simply. “And the villages are of no interest to me or Sir Troy. The work that needs be done in this part of England is to ferret out those people who would not hold loyal to the crown and discover them. Julian Kerr is a suspect, for he changed alliances so rapidly that his treason is an almost expected thing. These crimes against women and children are shocking mysteries that we will uncover eventually.”
“You suspect it is Lord Kerr, don’t you, Trent?” she asked.
“He is fearful of being my neighbor, frightened of my vengeance. As he should be. I have thought that in his effort to create crimes in which he can implicate me, he thinks to have me rousted from my lands. But it does not sit well. Julian Kerr is a coward and an opportunist. These things that happen truly do not resemble Kerr’s habits at all. There is something more dangerous brewing.”