LITMIR.BIZ

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the image of shock and disbelief still lingering in them. Within his chest his heart was suddenly crushed, and then an emptiness such as he had never felt swept over Charles Frederick Stuart. His glance took in Smythe, also dead. His sister and his daughter huddled together weeping with sorrow. His eldest son was frozen by his side, his small hand clutching his father’s.

      “What has happened here?” He pushed the words up through his constrictred throat, his tongue almost becoming entangled in them. He wanted to shriek his outrage; howl to the heavens at this terrible injustice. Bess! Bess! Bess! Her name echoed in his brain.

      Autumn looked up, her eyes swollen and red. “Roundheads,” she said, and nothing more. Then she began to shake, finally collapsing unconscious next to her dazed and benumbed niece.

      The Duke of Lundy picked up his young daughter. She was cold but half-conscious with her shock. The servants were beginning to crowd into the hall. Many were sobbing with both fright at what had happened and relief to see the duke, their master, returned from Worcester.

      Becket, with a wave of his hand, called forth young Sabrina’s nursemaid, Mavis, taking the child from her father and transferring her into the woman’s arms. “Take Lady Sabrina to her bedchamber and see to her welfare,” he said in a very no-nonsense voice. “You two!” He pointed at a pair of young footmen. “Remove Smythe from the entrance to be prepared for burial. Lily! Don’t just stand there gaping, girl. See to your mistress. Samuel! Peter! Carry Lady Autumn to her chamber! Clara, take Master Frederick upstairs. My lord, if you will come with me, I will try and explain what has happened here this morning. Where is the duchess’s tiring woman? Sybll, stay with your mistress until the master decides what is to be done. The rest of you, back to your duties!

      The duke followed Becket to the relative quiet of his library. The servant poured him a generous dollop of smoky, peat-flavored whiskey, shoving the crystal tumbler into his master’s hand.

      “Forgive my boldness, my lord, but with Smythe dead I felt, as his assistant, that I had to make some order out of the chaos. I am at your service, and will tell you what little I know. Just after dawn a cowherd spotted a troop of Roundheads making their way toward Queen’s Malvern. He gave the alarm. Her ladyship ordered the children hidden with their servants in the gardens. When I had finished overseeing this duty I discovered some of the blackguards had entered the east wing and, finding nothing they might loot, fired it. I ran to tell her ladyship, but she was already dead. Lady Autumn orderd a bucket brigade and sent me back to oversee it. I fear I can tell you nothing else.”

      “Did my daughter see her mother murdered?” the duke asked.

      “She was not in the hallway, my lord, when I was there,” Becket replied. “There was, however, a third victim, a Roundhead soldier. I must assume the captain of the troop removed him. He was obviously quite dead. He lay on his back, a bullet hole directly between his eyes, my lord. The Roundhead captain was a gentleman, my lord.” Becket refilled the duke’s tumbler, which was already empty.

      “Then my sister is the only person who can tell us all that happened here this morning,” the duke said slowly. He focused his gaze on Becket. “Your loyalty is appreciated, Becket, and you will, of course, assume Smythe’s position permanently. Have my wife’s women lay her out in her wedding gown. Have a grave dug in the family graveyard. We will bury her tomorrow. Inform me when my sister is conscious and able to speak with me.”

      “Yes, my lord,” Becket said, and then he withdrew.

      Alone, Charles Frederick Stuart put his head in his hands and wept. How could this have happened? The county of Worcester was a royalist enclave, a place of safety from Cromwell and his bloody Roundheads. Not any longer, obviously. And that fool, Billingsly, who had told him the Roundheads were headed in a different direction! Bess! His sweet Bess was dead and gone. He would never again hear her voice or lay with her in their bed. Never again would he caress her little round breasts that had always responded so well to their shared passion. Bess was dead. Taken from him in a war of rebellion that had seen his uncle murdered by the Parliament and his cousins in exile.

      He had avoided taking sides in this civil strife even as his mother had advised, even as his brother, Henry Lindley, was doing. The royal Stuarts had always loved him and treated him with exceptional kindness from the moment of his birth. Still, for his family’s sake he had remained neutral. Now, however, he had no choice. Now he would take sides, for with his wife’s murder the Roundheads had forced his hand. So be it, Charlie thought grimly, but no matter how many of them he killed—and he would kill—it would not bring back his lovely young wife. Bess was gone from him forever.

      He stood by her graveside the next day in an autumn rain, his three children by his side. His sister, however, had not yet been revived from her swoon, although she was showing signs of returning consciousness. Sabrina and Frederick were somber. Baby William did not understand what had happened. He would have no memories of Bess at all but those they gave him, the duke thought sadly. He took comfort in the fact that Bess was buried next to her great-grandparents, Adam de Marisco and Skye O’Malley. They would watch over her, he knew.

      Autumn Leslie finally revived the morning after her sister-in-law’s burial. Charlie came and sat by her side, taking her small hand in his.

      “Do you remember what happened, lass?” he asked her.

      Autumn nodded; then she told him.

      “Becket said the trooper was shot,” Charlie gently probed. “Did his captain execute him?”

      “Nay,” Autumn told him. “I did.”

      “You?” The duke was not certain whether he should believe her or not. It had been, after all, a terrible experience.

      “I said I wanted him killed for murdering Smythe and Bess,” Autumn explained. “Sir Simon laughed at me, but he handed me his pistol and told me to go ahead and kill him. He didn’t think I would, Charlie. He thought me a silly girl, hysterical with what had happened; but I took his weapon and slew the monster who had killed Bess and Smythe! Sir Simon was very surprised. I told him to arrest me, but he said the trooper was cannon fodder and would have died sooner or later. He said he accepted the responsibility for his death, for it had been he who had foolishly given me his pistol. Then he took the body and left. It was then that Sabrina came and saw her mother lying there. Oh, Charlie! I hate this Commonwealth, these Roundheads, and pocky Cromwell. I hate them!”

      He sighed deeply. “We buried Bess yesterday,” he said.

      “How long have I been unconscious?” Autumn gasped.

      “Three days,” her brother answered.

      “My God!” She was stunned by his revelation.

      “As soon as you are well enough to travel, Autumn, I will take you to Cadby. Perhaps Mother will be there by the time we arrive. Then I am taking the children to Glenkirk to Patrick, for safety’s sake.”

      “Charlie! What do you mean to do?”

      “Fight for my king,” her brother answered her. “I mean to join my cousin, King Charles II, in Scotland, little sister.”

      She nodded, understanding completely. “You have been left with no other choice,” she said. “What of Queen’s Malvern?”

      “I will close it up and leave but a skeleton staff to watch over it. I shall pay the servants for two years, and they shall all have their places when this is over, should they want them. They are safer without my presence than with it, now that the Roundheads have decided all Stuarts are the enemy. They will learn that they have made a bad mistake, making an enemy of me,” Charles Frederick Stuart said.

      “Mama will not be happy with your decision,” Autumn said softly.

      “I know,” Charlie answered, “but I cannot allow my wife’s death to go unavenged, nor can I now stand by as the monarchy is rent asunder by these traitors. Cromwell and his ilk are little better than the others, sister. My uncle was a good man but a bad king. Those who had his favor, and surrounded him, keeping him from the truth, were every bit as abusive of

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