Beloved Enemy Page 2

  Charmian did not meet her uncle nor her future husband until the next day. When she did meet them, she was surprised at the marked difference between her uncle, Edward Mason, and her own father. She had thought all men would be like her father—stern and powerful and somewhat rough in his ways. She did not look to her father for affection or gentleness and therefore did not expect to find it in any man. Her father was a being to be respected perhaps, but mainly to be feared and obeyed.

  Edward Mason was a thin man, slightly taller than her father, with gentle, rather frightened eyes, soft hands and a quiet, mild voice. But Joshua Mason—the son—resembled his mother, his rotund shape accentuated by his short cropped hair. He wore a black Puritan suit and white collar. The boy had obviously suffered from rickets—a common disease amongst children—for his legs were cruelly bowed, a deformity not helped by his obesity.

  ‘Spoiled, if you were to ask me, in spite of all their fanatical Puritan ways!’ Charmian had overheard her mother’s maid mutter. ‘His mother dotes on him.’ Her words had been addressed not to Charmian but to her father’s manservant. So often their servants voiced opinions in front of the child, forgetting that with every passing year the once uncomprehending child now began to understand some of their conversation.

  ‘This is your cousin, Daughter. Shake hands now,’ her father ordered, whilst her aunt looked on critically.

  Charmian tried to smile and held out her hand to the boy who was some four years her senior. Joshua Mason took her hand reluctantly, pumped it up and down with a vicious tug and, out of view of his elders, grimaced at her. Immediately Charmian retaliated by sticking out her tongue at the boy, but she had not taken the precaution—as he had—of committing the act unseen. Immediately her father raised his hand and struck her on the side of the face.

  ‘You deserve a beating, girl,’ he bellowed with rage. ‘Go to your room this instant.’

  Charmian left the gathering in disgrace, her cheek smarting. Behind her Joshua grinned with smug delight.

  That evening she was again called down to the grand hall. The family were waiting for her at the far end of the room and Charmian, a tiny, lonely figure in her grey dress and white apron, was obliged to walk the full length of the hall all the while feeling their unforgiving eyes upon her. Only her mother smiled at her tremulously, but even she glanced towards Joshua Radley to be sure he had not seen the loving gesture.

  Charmian stood meekly before her father.

  ‘You will go down on your knees and beg forgiveness from Joshua and from your aunt and uncle,’ her father shouted, his face purple. The vein in his temple throbbed—a sure sign of his extreme displeasure.

  In a moment of stubborn defiance, Charmian hesitated. Slowly, threateningly Joseph Radley raised his hand.

  ‘Charmian, please,’ came her mother’s terrified whisper from behind her.

  Charmian knelt on the cold stone slabs. ‘I beg your forgiveness Aunt Mason—Uncle.’

  ‘And now your cousin,’ her father roared.

  There was a silence whilst Charmian fought with her inner feelings. Again her father drew back his hand but at that moment the two doors at the end of the main hall were thrown open as if a whirlwind had entered the castle. A huge man strode into the room. He was tall and broad, his cloak flowing behind him. He had an up-turned moustache and a small, pointed beard. His hair curled down to his shoulders. His clothes were of silk and brightly coloured, and the broad-brimmed felt hat he carried in his hand was decorated with three white floating plumes.

  ‘Aha, a family gathering, I see. Why were we not invited, Brother-in-law?’ the huge man laughingly addressed Edward Mason, his booming voice echoing round the hall. Edward Mason coughed and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. All eyes turned to the stranger, Charmian’s misdemeanour forgotten. She saw her father’s hand fall to his side and risked a glance at his face. If anything, the stranger’s arrival was causing her father to grow even more angry than had her playful prank.

  The newcomer returned briefly to the doorway and shouted, ‘Come in, come in, I was right, you see. ’ Tis a family gathering. And,’ he turned back towards the Masons and the Radleys who were still standing in a stunned group, ‘are we not family?’ Again he was striding towards them, his hands outstretched towards Charmian’s mother, Elizabeth Radley.

  ‘My dear Elizabeth, after all these years!’ He took her mother’s trembling fingers in his own huge hand and raised them to his lips. ‘As beautiful as ever.’

  Charmian looked up at her mother. She was pale and yet two bright spots of colour burned in her cheeks.

  At that moment two more people appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Come along, Georgina,’ the man boomed, ‘ don’t you want to see your brother, Edward?’

  A small, slight woman came hesitantly into the hall and seemed to sidle towards Edward Mason who greeted her with quiet affection, though he was obviously still very ill at ease and kept casting anxious, furtive glances towards his own wife.

  Charmian’s eyes found the third stranger—a young man of about 18 or so, she judged. A handsome young man, almost as tall as his father, with the same laughing eyes and generous mouth and dressed in the same flamboyant style.

  ‘Well, well, well. And what is all this about, eh?’ the older man was saying in his resonant voice.

  Mary Mason said stiffly, ‘Exactly! What are you doing in my house, Sir Geoffrey Denholm? I do not remember requesting your company?’

  ‘Oh—your house is it now. Mistress Mason? I do not recall being banned from Gartree Castle when I paid court to your husband’s sister.’

  ‘Times have changed, sir. I’ll have no—Cavalier under my roof.’ She almost spat out the words.

  At that moment, the stranger seemed to become aware of their mode of dress.

  ‘Good God—you’re not followers of that damned Cromwell! No—no, b’God, it cannot be.’ His gaze came to rest upon the bowed head of Elizabeth Radley. ‘It cannot be,’ he murmured softly.

  ‘I’ll thank you not to vilify his name in my house,’ Mary Mason snapped.

  ‘Nor in my presence,’ Joseph Radley said stoutly, standing beside his half-sister. But Sir Geoffrey did not appear to be listening to them. His gaze, filled with a kind of sadness, was fastened upon the lovely face of Charmian’s mother.

  Chapter Two

  After the arrival of Sir Geoffrey Denholm and his wife and son, the proceedings, for Charmian, seemed to pass by in a blur. She was conscious only of the big man’s commanding presence, of his booming voice, his ready laughter. But it was perhaps his son, Campbell, who really captivated the 10-year-old girl. Lady Denholm was a quiet, docile creature, like her brother, Edward Mason, and together they seemed to merge into the background and almost disappear.

  At the ceremony of the betrothal Charmian found herself standing beside her moody cousin, Joshua, but her eyes sought the face of Campbell Denholm standing near his father, watching her, his laughing mouth unusually grim, his brown eyes sober and mysterious.

  After the ceremony—meaningless to the girl-child—there was a plain meal to which Mary Mason was obliged with great reluctance to invite the Denholm family. Puritans lived an austere life. They shunned any form of merry-making, believing it to be sinful. The only form of entertainment they were allowed was music, but even that had to be of a solemn nature. The food spread out on the table followed this belief for it was wholesome yet simple and unextravagant. There was a vegetable soup followed by venison, beef and chicken and then fruit pie and custard and ale to drink even for Charmian and Joshua.

  Seated at the table beside her future husband, Charmian was disgusted by the boy’s eating habits. It seemed he could not stuff the food into his mouth quickly enough. She watched as he chewed upon a chicken leg, the grease running down his chin. Then across the table her eyes met Campbell’s gaze and, with a child’s artlessness, she smiled at him. If only, she thought, Campbell were my betrothed instead of Joshua.

  Am
ongst the adults, there was a distinct atmosphere of discord and tension. The arrival of the Denholm family had been an embarrassment to Mary Mason and Joseph Radley, but because Lady Denholm was Edward Mason’s sister, they were obliged to suffer the continued presence of their Royalist enemies and even to sit at table with them. Joseph Radley’s hostile gaze, his eyes bulging with ill-suppressed anger, continually darted from the faces of the King’s followers to his own wife, Elizabeth. Though nervous of her husband’s wrath, nevertheless she seemed to have about her an unaccustomed aura of excitement. There was a brightness to her eyes and a faint smile upon her lips which Charmian noticed but could not begin to understand. And Joseph Radley’s face never lost its purple hue during the whole evening.

  ‘When does the music and dancing commence, Mistress Mason?’ boomed Sir Geoffrey.

  ‘Dancing?’ Mary Mason’s face was scandalized. ‘There’ll be no dancing here, sir!’

  ‘A pity,’ remarked the Royalist drily and his eyes twinkled roguishly. ‘I doubt your young daughter has ever experienced the pleasures of the dance, eh Radley?’ He rose from his chair and held out his hand towards Charmian. ‘Come, my pretty princess, I shall teach you.’

  Joseph Radley was on his feet in an instant, thumping the table with his fist. ‘I’ll thank you, sir, not to introduce my daughter to your evil ways!’

  The amusement fled from Sir Geoffrey’s face. ‘You insult me, Radley.’

  ‘Ay,’ the other growled, leaning over the table towards him, whilst Charmian watched with interest, her glance flitting backwards and forwards from one face to the other. At her side, oblivious to everything else, Joshua carried on eating.

  ‘I’ll insult you right enough, Sir Geoffrey!’ Sarcasm lined his salutation. ‘ ’ Tis a mystery to me why you are still at large. Your King is our prisoner now and Cromwell will take power yet.’

  ‘We’re not finished yet awhile, Radley. Whilst His Majesty lives …’

  ‘Ha—whilst he lives,’ Joseph Radley mocked. ‘He thought he was being very clever, did he not, escaping from Hampton Court and fleeing to the Isle of Wight?’ He laughed derisively. ‘But what did he find when he got there? The Governor was a Parliamentarian!’

  Sir Geoffrey’s jaw hardened and, Charmian noticed, his son rose quietly from his seat and came to stand at his father’s side.

  ‘You may seek to kill the King,’ Campbell said softly, ‘but you will never succeed in killing the monarchy. King Charles and his heirs rule by divine right …’

  His words were drowned by Joseph Radley’s roar as he shook his fist in the faces of the two loyal King’s men, outnumbered in this Puritan household. But to Charmian’s young eyes it was the commanding presence of the flamboyant Sir Geoffrey and his handsome son which filled the room and outshone all the rest of the company.

  Edward Mason was on his feet now too trying to make himself heard. ‘Please—please! This is a family gathering. Please let us forget for one evening at least our differences.’

  Gradually the tumult subsided and the guests sat down and resumed their meal, but the vein throbbed purple in Joseph Radley’s temple and his fists lay clenched upon the table.

  In spite of everything, Sir Geoffrey was determined to stay at Gartree Castle and the following afternoon, whilst Charmian was walking in the grounds with her mother, he and Campbell suddenly appeared beside them.

  ‘Elizabeth, I must talk with you,’ she heard Sir Geoffrey say to her mother in a low, urgent tone. ‘Come, down near the river there is an arbour where we can talk undisturbed and unseen from the castle. Campbell can show the little princess the swans.’

  ‘No, Geoffrey, I cannot—I dare not!’ her mother began, reluctantly, but Charmian cried eagerly, ‘Oh, yes, please,’ and gave a squeal of delight when Campbell swung her high in the air, seated her on his shoulder and galloped down the slope out of sight of the windows and towards the river. Charmian’s merry laughter ran out in the September air. Watching their antics, even Elizabeth Radley’s face lost some of its lines of tension.

  At the river bank, Campbell stopped and made as if to tip Charmian headlong into the water. She screamed in genuine terror as she felt herself slip from his shoulder, but as she fell forward she felt his strong arms about her and he was laughing down into her face. Her demure white cotton bonnet was dislodged and fell off and her golden curls tumbled down her back.

  For a moment Campbell’s eyes were solemn, then swiftly he was laughing again. ‘My beautiful Princess Golden Hair,’ he said and gently touched one of the fine silken locks.

  ‘You haven’t shown me the swans yet,’ Charmian said.

  Campbell set her down upon the ground and then took her hand. ‘This way, Princess, to the swans.’

  ‘Wait. What about my mother, I …’

  ‘Oh, your mother can see you.’

  ‘But I must tell her.’ Charmian made as if to pull away from him but his grasp tightened upon her hand. ‘No.’ His tone was sharp. Charmian followed his glance towards the arbour and saw her mother seated there with Sir Geoffrey. The handsome Royalist was holding her mother’s hand between his own two huge hands, as if trying to warm life into her. He was leaning towards her talking earnestly, and, as Charmian watched he raised Elizabeth’s hand to his lips and kissed it gently, almost reverently.

  ‘Come, we must not disturb them. They have many years to catch up on.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked the innocent child.

  Campbell looked down at her and said gently, ‘ My father and your mother knew each other many years ago.’

  ‘Oh. Were they friends?’

  A small smile quirked the corner of his mouth and the wryness in his tone was lost upon the child. ‘I believe they were very good friends, Princess. Look, here are the swans.’

  ‘How lovely they are. So white and see how they glide in the water.’ Charmian clasped her hands in sheer delight. ‘ Oh look, look, there are some young ones swimming behind their mother. Do look, Campbell.’

  ‘I’m looking, Princess,’ he said softly. But his eyes were not upon the stately birds but on the excited, animated young girl beside him, her golden curls flying, her blue eyes dancing and her skin aglow in the sharp air.

  Presently, her interest in the swans faded. It was then that she noticed a swing tucked up into the boughs of a tree overhanging the path beside the river.

  ‘Do you think I might have a swing?’ she asked Campbell with a quaint sedateness that brought a tender smile to the lips of the young man. ‘ I expect it belongs to Joshua. Do you think he would mind?’

  ‘Why should he? You are his betrothed,’ Campbell replied. The smile faded from his mouth and there was a bitter edge to his tone.

  ‘Ye-es,’ Charmian said slowly. ‘But he does not seem to like me all the same.’

  ‘Do—do you like him?’ Campbell asked the girl softly.

  Charmian wrinkled her nose. ‘No,’ she answered with honesty, and added impulsively, ‘I wish it were you I had become betrothed to, Campbell.’

  ‘Yes,’ the young man replied quite seriously, ‘so do I.’ But the last words were spoken so quietly and Charmian was now intent upon the swing that she did not really hear him.

  Campbell climbed the tree with agility. ‘Stand out of the way, Princess, whilst I drop it down.’

  ‘Push higher, Campbell, higher,’ Charmian was shrieking with delight moments later, whilst laughingly he pushed once more and then sank to the ground pretending exhaustion.

  Charmian giggled helplessly.

  At that moment someone shouted her name and the joy and colour fled from her face. Her eyes grew wide with fear. Charmian slipped from the swing, almost guiltily, and Campbell stood up to see Joseph Radley striding down the grass slope towards them. With a gasp, Charmian glanced towards the arbour. Elizabeth Radley, hearing her husband’s voice, had jumped to her feet and made as if to run from the arbour which at present obscured her from his view, but Sir Geoffrey put out his arm to restrain her.


  Charmian, with only one thought in her head, that of protecting her mother from her father’s wrath, ran up the slope to meet him, her hair flying, her skirts lifted almost to her knees, but, breathless, she managed to reach him before he should draw level with the arbour and catch sight of her mother there with the man he considered his enemy. Not quite understanding why, even so the child knew how angry her father would be if he were to see them together. Campbell, obviously fearing the same thing, had followed her towards Joseph Radley.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  Charmian faced her father’s rage with a beating heart, more fearful of what he should discover in the arbour than of his annoyance at herself for being improperly dressed, with flying hair and rumpled skirts.

  ‘Where is your mother?’

  ‘I—I do not know,’ Charmian faltered. It was the first time she could ever remember having told her father a deliberate lie.

  ‘Return to the house immediately and make ready to leave. I have no wish to stay here with these—these Cavaliers!’ He glanced towards Campbell Denholm standing a few feet away. There was a sneer upon Joseph Radley’s face as his glance ran over the young man from head to foot, over his fine clothes, his long curling brown hair.

  ‘You’re a fool, young man, to ally yourself to a losing cause. The King can hold out no longer against Cromwell’s Model Army and when the time comes we shall show no mercy to the damned Royalists. Only the protection of your relationship to my brother-in-law has saved you from capture this very day.’

  Campbell’s expression hardened. ‘I grant you the King may not be perfect, but he is the rightful Monarch. Whilst he lives we cannot be overrun by a ruthless dictator who will be followed by many who lust only for power—’

  His words struck home and Joseph Radley gave a humourless bark of laughter. You young pup! What do you know of such matters? You blindly follow your sire …’

  ‘No!’ Campbell’s face, too, was now dark with anger. ‘You insult me, sir. I follow the dictates of my own reasoning. Whatever my father is, or does, makes no matter to me. I am my own man and I choose my own path.’