A Shattered Heritage

 CHAPTER ONE

  Three pungent tallow candles flickered uncertainly as a breath of air agitated the atmosphere in a small bare room high under the eaves. A door had opened. There was the rustle of satin skirts and soft footsteps treading the floorboards, then a tall, well-dressed woman appeared in the aura of light. An array of red curls framed her face, but her fine blue eyes glinted with resolve as she reached for the primed flintlock musket.

   She kept the weapon clean, loaded and ready, to protect her two young children and husband should anyone stray too close. Such watchfulness had kept them alive in recent days, since the conflict ravaging this poor country had arrived at their door. Lady Anthea Harper stepped into the light, checked the powder in the pan, pulled the hammer back, and peered down the barrel into the wind-battered garden. Her heart was pounding as she searched for the telltale glint of military helmets and glowing matchlock muskets far below. But there was nothing to see.

   The doorbell pealed again, its clangour reverberating insistently through the abandoned rooms. If this was the Roundhead army, she would not yield easily. But then the fire leached out of her as she heard the patter of little feet along the passage.

   ‘Mama, Mama. Are you there?’

   ‘Yes, sweetheart. Did the bell wake you?’

   The door opened, and a young seven-year-old stood on the threshold, still dazed from sleep. He nodded.

   She knelt and hugged him to her, then leaned back to sweep the hair from his eyes. ‘It’s only a visitor. Now, go back to bed. I’ll come and see you in a few minutes, after I’ve answered the door.’

   His face puckered in a frown. ‘Why do you have a gun?’

   ‘Just a precaution, my dearest. I’ll deal with the visitor and then come and tell you a story. Off you go. Quickly now.’

   She followed him down the stairs, holding the heavy candelabra up to light their way. As he turned towards his bedchamber, she continued down to the ground floor, trying to focus her mind on what she had to do.

   In the days since Edward had been set upon, Anthea had planned her defence. She placed the candles on the table by the front door where the light would dazzle anyone entering the house.

   Above her on the galleried landing, there was a hideous scraping, as though a cumbersome sack was being dragged across the floorboards. ‘Edward. Is that you?’ she whispered and glanced over her shoulder, but there was nothing to see in the darkness.

   ‘I am here, Anthea.’ His voice was hoarse and frail. ‘Be careful.’

   ‘Oh, my love,’ she whispered, humbled as she imagined the pain he was in. ‘You should not have left your bed.’ She shook off the weakness. It was time.

   This was for Theodore, for Edwina and for Edward. Then she eased back the massive bolts that secured the ancient iron-studded oak door, lifted the latch and pulled it open a fraction, quickly shrinking into the darkness behind its thick protective mass.

   There was a long silence, and tension built to a howling ache inside her.

   Why, oh why, did they not come straight in and finish it? She was mortally weary of waiting for the inevitable. But a voice broke the silence. ‘Perhaps we should continue to the next house, Paul. There is no one here.’

   Anthea’s breath caught in her throat. She knew that voice! It was her oldest and most beloved friend, Jenny Daverley. What was she doing hundreds of miles from home?

   She was coming into terrible danger. Every part of her willed that gentle soul to go away, before she was sucked in and consumed.

   Enemy spies would be in the garden, listening to every word Jenny spoke.

   ‘No, Jenny.’ It was a man’s voice this time, and she recognised him too. ‘We can’t walk further in this gale. Open the door. I can see light in the hall. I don’t think anyone would deny us shelter on a night like this. Come.’

   An unseen hand pushed the door open, and it creaked abominably, grating on Anthea’s nerves so that she nearly screamed. She held her breath and raised the musket with steady hands, taking aim at the shadowy figures advancing into the hall, into the light of her well-positioned candles.

   They numbered two, and they were alone.

   The ferocity seeped out of her as the gentleman pushed the door shut behind him and pulled the huge iron bolts across to lock it. The moment the house was secure, Jenny shrank back against him. ‘Anthea. Anthea, are you here?’

   The tension drained from her taut muscles, and she stepped out of the shadows. ‘Jenny! What rashness is this?’

   Jenny jumped as though stung and spun round. ‘Anthea! God, you frightened me.’

   ‘I’m sorry, my dearest, but you must leave. There is mortal danger here.’

   ‘We know it. And we’ve come to help you.’

   ‘Dear Jenny.’ Anthea gave her a warm hug, then held her at arm’s length and looked into her eyes. ‘Now, listen. The rebel army is likely to be upon us at any time. You must leave immediately. Please, Jenny, take yourself to safety.’

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   On the landing, Edward Harper squinted along the barrel of his musket and adjusted the aim to protect his wife. He could hear the mumble of voices, but they were too faint for the meaning to reach him. The visitors were strangers, but Anthea clearly knew the woman.

   His mouth hardened into a taut line, and his finger tightened on the trigger. He had learned the hard way not to trust friends in turbulent times such as these.

   He peered into the darkness near the front door and watched the tall stranger glance up and around casually. Moments later, he stepped into the aura of light, and Edward’s fears increased manyfold. He could see from his stature and bearing that he was no casual visitor. This was a military man, and a dangerous one.

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