Satan's Mark

“But perhaps you ought not to come here alone in the future. There are men who might be tempted by such loveliness as yours, men who cannot be trusted to behave as they ought. These are dangerous times, and I would have you bring someone with you to protect you.”

“Oh…” Something in Justin’s look made Annelise’s heart beat faster. “You are kind, sir.”

“Kind?” Justin laughed, the devilment leaping up in his eyes. She was an innocent. How little she knew of men. “No, mistress, do not deceive yourself. Had you been other than you are, I might have done my best to lie with you this very day.”

Annelise lowered her gaze, her heart racing. His words ought to have made her angry. He had no right to say them to her, but somehow she did not mind….

ANNE HERRIES

lives in Cambridge, but spends part of the winter in Spain, where she and her husband stay in a pretty resort nestled amid the hills that run from Malaga to Gibraltar. Gazing over a sparkling blue ocean, watching the sunbeams dance like silver confetti on the restless waves, Anne loves to dream up her stories of laughter, tears and romantic lovers.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

Annelise paused to glance over her shoulder as she heard a burst of raucous laughter. Three men had come staggering out of the inn behind her, their arms about each other’s shoulders; they were obviously in high good humour, seemingly the worse for strong drink as they laughed and shouted at some jest of their own.

Such behaviour was frowned on by her uncle and his friends—but these men were surely strangers?

Her heart raced wildly, nerves fluttering in sudden apprehension. They were Royalists! Cavaliers, soldiers, newly returned from wherever their wanderings had taken them these past years. She knew them by their extravagant manner of dressing, so different from her own much plainer garb, which was the simple gown and cap favoured by those of the Puritan persuasion.

The men were indulging in friendly horseplay, pushing each other as though they would fight a mock battle and creating a great deal of noise. They were obviously intoxicated, she thought, her face freezing into an expression of distaste as the tallest of them swept his hat off, making her an elegant bow; his action brought another burst of merriment from his companions.

‘Have at it, Justin—the wench is worth the bedding, I’ll vow.’

Annelise turned away, her cheeks flushed with annoyance as she realised the laughter concerned her this time. If this was how the new King’s supporters meant to behave after their long exile, her uncle was right—England would soon return to the bad old ways!

Sir Hugh Featherstone had been a close friend of Oliver Cromwell long before he had become the Lord Protector. Sir Hugh and Cromwell had fought together in the wicked Civil War, which, her uncle maintained, King Charles I had inflicted on his people, and the great man’s death had been truly mourned in the Featherstone house.

In her heart, Annelise had not really liked the Lord Protector, though she had respected him as she ought. She had found him a solemn, stern man, despite his kindness to her whenever they had met, and…

‘Mistress Woodward.’ The woman’s cry brought her from her reverie. ‘Pray wait a moment. I would have you carry a message to Lady Prudence.’

Annelise stopped at once, waiting for the woman to come up to her. She could hear the men laughing loudly just behind her, but refrained from looking back, suspecting that yet again some of their merriment might be on her account. She would not let them guess she had heard their wicked remarks about her person. Shame on them for their immodesty!

‘Goodwife Hale,’ she said with a smile as the woman arrived, puffing slightly from the effort. ‘What may I do for you?’

Mistress Hale was the wife of the village parson, a good, devout woman, though somewhat dour and stout of person. Beneath her plain black gown, with its collar of white linen, her more than adequate figure bulged and struggled for freedom, so that she resembled nothing so much as a bag of turnips tied up in the middle.

‘I wondered if…’ Mistress Hale halted as the three men passed by on their way from the inn, one of them brushing his arm carelessly against her basket. ‘Have a care, sir,’ she cried, glaring at him. She crossed herself fearfully. ‘Your kind are not welcome here. The mark of Satan is upon you.’

The Cavalier she had addressed could not hide his astonishment, for his carelessness had surely not warranted such a tirade. His brow creased, and for a moment Annelise thought he might strike the parson’s wife, such anger was in his face.

He was a large man, with a florid complexion and narrow-set eyes. Annelise felt a shiver run down her spine. Mistress Hale was surely unwise to speak so harshly to such a man? He and his kind were in command now, and no one could yet be sure how King Charles II would behave towards the followers of the men who had so cruelly killed his father. Better to tread carefully, to avoid confrontation.

‘Hell’s bells!’ the man muttered. ‘May a man not walk in the street now without being accosted by a shrew? A sorry place these Puritans have made of our merry England. I’ve a mind to teach you better manners, witch!’

‘Mistress Hale meant no harm,’ Annelise said quickly as she saw the older woman’s expression of indignation and feared a further outburst. ‘She was but startled, sir.’

The man’s dark eyes came to rest on her. Despite the plainness of her gown and headdress, nothing could deny the girl’s beauty. Only a few wisps of golden hair showed beneath her linen cap, but her eyes were wide and clear, more grey than blue, her complexion so delicate and perfect that the man’s jaw dropped.

‘Come, Ralph,’ another voice commanded. ‘We have business, remember?’

It was the tall man, who had made Annelise a mocking bow. His words had a powerful effect on the man called Ralph. He nodded, some of the anger fading from his face.

‘You are right as always, Justin,’ he said. He bowed his head to Annelise, a rueful twist to his lips. ‘You are fair of tongue and face, mistress—’tis a pity you wear the colours of a crow.’

‘Forgive him,’ the second man said, causing Annelise to look at him more closely.

She caught her breath. How attractive he was! He had taken off his hat once more and his long dark hair shone like the wing of a raven as it hung on his shoulders. His eyes were very blue and at that moment seemed to be laughing at some private jest all his own. She did not think she had ever seen such a well-favoured man in her life, and her heart had begun to beat very oddly.

How foolish! Annelise scolded herself mentally for her thoughts. She had been taught to disregard the vanities of life, and, though she had often rebelled inwardly at the strictness of her uncle’s rules, was accustomed to accepting his word as law. She went to church every Sunday, morning and night, listening to the long, dull sermons without complaint—and if she did smuggle a book of poems into her bedchamber, to read by the light of her candle, there was no harm in it. At least as long as her uncle did not discover her fall from grace.

‘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?

How wicked she was! No, no, she would not consider the idea for a moment; it could only bring unhappiness. A good, sober man of her uncle’s choosing would surely make a comfortable companion and she would be a fool to ask more.

Indeed, she did not expect to meet the stranger again. She thrust the memory of his handsome face from her mind and hurried into the house to give Aunt Prudence the message from Mistress Hale.

‘My God, Justin,’ Ralph muttered as he threw himself down on an oak settle and took up the tankard of ale Robert’s man had poured for him. ‘This is a sorry homecoming for that young scamp. ’Pon my word, I never expected to find the estate so neglected.’

The two of them were alone in the parlour, the only comfortable room in the house, their host having gone off for a walk to cool his temper. Which, considering the neglect they had found, was perhaps the best thing Robert could have done.

‘I dare say it is as well,’ Justin remarked wryly. ‘Had it been flourishing, Rob would have found himself fighting through the courts for possession.’

‘As you must,’ Ralph said, nodding. ‘It is fortunate that you have not been idle these past years, my friend. At least you do not need to be a burden to your companions.’

Ralph Saunders had lost everything he had left behind. A devoted supporter of Charles I from the first, he had beggared himself by giving away his plate and gold in the King’s cause. His house was in ruins after a fiercely resisted siege, and the land had been neglected so long it had gone wild. Due to the generosity of Justin he was not a pauper, but it irked him to live on another’s charity.

‘We may be able to do something about your house,’ Justin said, frowning as he saw the flicker of anger in the other man’s eyes. ‘No, no, don’t poker up like that, Ralph. I have more than enough for my needs. If your house can be restored, I shall lend you the money—and you may repay me at your leisure.’

‘Damned good of you, but I don’t like it,’ Ralph muttered. ‘The Black Boy has promised to give me a pension, but God knows when I shall get it—you know he is surrounded by petitioners on all sides.’

Justin smiled at the irreverent description of the King; those who had shared Charles’s exile during his years of wandering had many a name for him.

‘And it does not suit your pride to join them?’ Justin mocked, the light of battle in his eyes. ‘Well, my finicky friend, we must find you a rich heiress to marry.’

‘Now don’t start that again,’ Ralph protested, throwing up his hands. ‘No woman of fortune would take me—why should she? I’m damned near forty, too heavy, and set in my ways—and I never was a catch, even as a young man.’

‘You wrong yourself,’ Justin said, smiling at his companion of many years. ‘You are no beauty, but you have a good heart. I am sure we can find you an honest widow, who will be willing to share both her fortune and her bed with you of a cold night.’

It was now that the character Annelise had glimpsed won through. To strangers, Justin might at times appear stern, distant, but to his friends he gave generously of both his money and his self.

Ralph scowled at him. ‘Mock me if you will, wretch! If you were not such a damned fine swordsman I would call you out—speaking of which, what did you think of the Puritan wench? Now if she would glance my way, I might consider marriage. I have seldom seen such a beauty, even at the court of France.’

‘You would compare her to Mademoiselle Dubonnet?’ Justin asked with raised brows. ‘Or the Comtesse Migonet? I thought her a pretty little sparrow but she cannot compare to Mirabelle Varennes.’

‘Your chère aimée?’ Ralph lifted an eyebrow. ‘Few women can compare with her, Justin. She will be missing you. I dare swear she expected a proposal of marriage from you now that her period of mourning is over.’

Justin frowned, his eyes narrowing in thought. ‘Yes, I imagine you are right. Mirabelle’s temper will not have improved since we left Paris. I am not sure that I want to marry her, Ralph. She is beautiful, charming, sophisticated—everything a man could desire in a wife—and yet I hesitate. It was in my mind to ask her, but I was reminded that I had a duty here and I decided to settle that first.’

Ralph looked at him curiously. ‘What are you going to do about that—the girl, I mean? Her father’s will makes you her guardian and custodian of his estate, but it was meant to be your father who stood guardian, Justin. Woodward could not have known that the date he wrote out the document was two weeks after your father was killed—that he was in fact making you his daughter’s guardian. You were not much more than a lad at the time.’

‘If he had written down the third Marquis Saintjohn, the will would have become void,’ Justin said, his brow furrowing. ‘He must have written it in a desperate state, knowing he was dying, forgetting that my father was the third Marquis Saintjohn and that I would be the fourth. If he had made his wishes plain, I should not be in this awkward position. All reports of Featherstone say that he is an honest man—and was a true friend of Cromwell, who you know I admired, despite his misguided actions in regard to His Majesty’s father.

‘Had the will been clear, I should not have sought to interfere—but I feel obliged to at least make sure she is being properly cared for. The estate is hers by right. Her mother’s brother has no claim to it, despite the stewardship granted by Parliament. If I chose to fight him through the courts, I should undoubtedly win.’

‘But you are not sure you want to do that—is that not so?’

Justin took a turn about the room, glancing out of the window at the neglected drive. He had promised Robert help with restoring his estate. It would take weeks of hard work to bring this place back to its former state, and that time would give him an opportunity to look about him, to make discreet enquiries and discover what he could of Mistress Annelise Woodward and her guardian.

‘I am thirty-four,’ Justin said at last with a wry smile. ‘Half my life has been spent abroad. I have made a fortune from a trade some would call piracy—though I sailed under the French flag and had a licence from the Crown—and now I am back in England I must fight to gain my rightful lands. If I am to have an heir I must marry soon. I have little time to dance attendance on a young girl. She has no husband. Her guardian has been remiss in this: he could surely have found someone to take her with an estate of that size?’

‘She must be nineteen or twenty by now,’ Ralph said. ‘Not so very young. You could do worse than wed her yourself, especially if you seek an heir. At least you could be certain the child was yours, for she’s hardly likely to have had a lover; these Puritans keep their women close.’

‘She is probably as plain as a pikestaff,’ Justin said, his sense of the ridiculous coming to his rescue. He chuckled deep in his throat. ‘Indeed, she must be, or Featherstone would have matched her long ago. No, no, Ralph. Spare me that sorry fate, I beg you. If I marry, it will be to a lady of the court—a woman in her twenties, a widow, perhaps—who will understand my ways and give me a son without expecting me to love her. I have no time for courtship and pretty words.’

‘You are asking much,’ Ralph said, lifting his brows. ‘Most women desire at least a show of tenderness. Even I know that!’

‘Tenderness?’ Justin arched his brows mockingly. ‘I am not sure I know how to love, my friend. I have been too busy staying alive these last years to have time for tenderness. What do I know but fighting? I have been a mercenary and a privateer, taking comfort from a willing woman where I found it. Besides, what is love? My mother took lovers even before the war, while my father lived. Most women I have known are as inconstant as the moon.’

‘Oh, ye foolish one!’ It was Ralph’s turn to mock now. ‘I’ll take a wager with you, Justin—one day you will find a woman who will show you what love is, and then you will fall hard. Believe me, you will suffer then. She will twist you round her dainty finger!’