Exile's Return

  Exile’s Return

  Alison Stuart

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  Exile’s Return

  Alison Stuart

  The breathtaking conclusion to Alison Stuart’s English Civil War trilogy introduces a heroine with nothing left to lose and a hero with everything to gain…

  England, 1659: Following the death of Cromwell, a new king is poised to ascend the throne of England. One by one, those once loyal to the crown begin to return …

  Imprisoned, exiled and tortured, fugitive Daniel Lovell returns to England, determined to kill the man who murdered his father. But his plans for revenge must wait, as the King has one last mission for him.

  Agnes Fletcher’s lover is dead, and when his two orphaned children are torn from her care by their scheming guardian, she finds herself alone and devastated by the loss. Unwilling to give up, Agnes desperately seeks anyone willing to accompany her on a perilous journey to save the children and return them to her care. She didn’t plan on meeting the infamous Daniel Lovell. She didn’t plan on falling in love.

  Thrown together with separate quests – and competing obligations – Daniel and Agnes make their way from London to the English countryside, danger at every turn. When they are finally given the opportunity to seize everything they ever hoped for, will they find the peace they crave, or will their fledgling love be a final casualty of war?

  About the Author

  Award-winning Australian author Alison Stuart learned her passion for history from her father. She has been writing stories since her teenage years, but it was not until 2007 that her first full-length novel was published. A past president of the Romance Writers of Australia, Alison has now published seven full-length historical romances and a collection of her short stories. Many of her stories have been shortlisted for international awards and By The Sword (Book 1 in the Guardians of the Crown series) won the 2008 EPIC Award for Best Historical Romance.

  Her disposition for writing about soldier heroes may come from her varied career as a lawyer in the military and fire services. These days when she is not writing, she is travelling, and routinely drags her long-suffering husband around battlefields and castles.

  Readers can connect with Alison through her website (alisonstuart.com), Facebook, Twitter, or Pinterest.

  Acknowledgements

  Exile’s Return marks the end of a long journey that began in my childhood on that fateful visit to Harvington Hall that inspired By the Sword. There have been so many people who have helped me along the way and supported my passion to write.

  I could not do what I do without the long-suffering support of my husband, David, who makes all things possible and seems to have no objection to being dragged around castles and battlefields. He also takes a sadistic delight in correcting my rough drafts and providing all sorts of advice, whether I have asked for it or not.

  I would like to acknowledge one particular friend, Carol H. (to whom this book is dedicated), who fell in love with Jonathan and Kit (Kit in particular!) in their earlier incarnation and has nagged me for years to write the conclusion to their stories. She was right — although both By The Sword and The King’s Man stand alone, without the restoration of the King, there could be no happily ever after for the characters in those books.

  And then there is my writers group, the Saturday Ladies, without whom Exile’s Return would still be in draft form. They put their collective shoulders behind me and nudged me over the line with cajoling, advice, and downright nagging when needed.

  Finally, to my editor Kate Cuthbert and the team at Escape Publishing; thank you for having faith in me and my boys and allowing Daniel’s story to be told at long last!

  To my dear friend, Carol H, for having the faith that Daniel’s story would one day be told and for being there through thick and thin over the years …

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Historical Note

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

  Prologue

  Barbados

  12 February 1654

  ‘Est-il mort?’

  Is he dead?

  The voice came from a long way above him. As Daniel’s battered mind made the translation into English, the words were followed by a well-aimed boot to the ribs.

  Daniel groaned, his fingers digging into the sand. A shadow fell across him and someone seized a handful of his hair, jerking his head up from the warm beach.

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’ This time the interrogative was made in heavily accented English.

  Daniel struggled and failed to bring the bearded face into focus. He licked his cracked lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood. He could not even produce the spittle he felt the questioner deserved.

  He considered his options. Beg for his life? Plead not to be returned to the plantation? Or he could muster what little strength and pride he had left and keep silent. He would die anyway, and here and now seemed as good a time as any.

  ‘Qu’il soit!’ The second voice held the tone of authority.

  The first interrogator, obedient to the command to let him be, released his grip on Daniel’s hair and let his head fall back onto the sand.

  Daniel turned his face to the ocean where the gentle sea lapped on the shore. A ship’s longboat had been pulled up on the golden sand and beyond it, nestled into this hidden bay, a frigate, its sails furled, bobbed serenely on the azure water.

  Such a beautiful place to die, he thought. God in his wisdom had sent angels to release him; strange angels, definitely from the rougher end of Heaven.

  ‘He’s more dead than alive,’ the first man said in French. ‘Reckon he’s a runaway?’

  ‘Look at the state he’s in. Bound to be,’ the second man responded and squatted down beside Daniel. He wore only a shirt and breeches and a pair of well-worn and unpolished bucket top boots. A short sword and a pistol had been shoved through his belt.

  He pushed a shapeless, broad-brimmed hat to the back of his head and scratched his bearded chin.

  ‘Someone hated you, boy,’ he said in English.

  ‘Kill me if you must,’ Daniel murmured, ‘but if you’ve a Christian heart, don’t send me back.’

  ‘Ah, there we have a dilemma, my young friend,’ the Frenchman replied. ‘No man in my crew has a Christian heart, and a reward, if there is such a thing for your mangled hide, is tempting. However, it is fortunate for you that I’m not willing to risk putting my crew in the way of temptation for the sake of whatever paltry amount you would fetch when there is a reward of 100 English pounds on my own head.’

  Daniel’s gaze drifted to the pistol in the man’s belt. He wondered if he had the strength to seize it. One shot to his temple would be all it would take and he would be free.

  The man let out a heavy sigh.

  ‘Seems to me the choice is yours, boy. I can leave you here to die or, if you’re unlucky, the search parties will find you first. Or … ’ he paused, ‘ … I can take you with me, as an insurance, you understand, against such a time as I may need to have something of value to trade with the English.’

  Dan
iel closed his eyes. ‘Whoever you are, sir, my fate is in your hands.’

  The man chuckled. ‘My name is Broussard and I am captain of L’Archange, a ship in the service of His Most Gracious Majesty Louis of France.’

  He’d heard of L’Archange. Visitors to Pritchard’s plantation had lamented its attacks on their own ships. His angel in unpolished boots had turned out to be a French privateer. A small spark of hope flared in his chest.

  ‘Take me with you,’ Daniel murmured.

  The Frenchman rose to his feet.

  ‘Allez!’ he ordered, and then added, almost as an afterthought, ‘and bring him with us.’

  Chapter 1

  London

  October 27, 1659

  Agnes gripped the windowsill as a distant clock struck twelve, marking the fall of the executioner’s axe. James Ashby, third earl of Elmhurst, was dead.

  She closed her eyes and prayed that death had been swift.

  Taking a deep breath, Agnes turned to face the room. The cold draught that rose between the ill-fitting floorboards of the inn lifted her skirts as she walked across to where the two children were playing a noisy game of knucklebones.

  ‘You cheated!’ seven-year-old Elizabeth, the eldest of the two, exclaimed.

  Four-year-old Henry hurled himself at his sister, issuing a loud and high pitched disclaimer that rang in Agnes’s ears, jarring her nerves.

  ‘Stop it!’

  Something in her tone made the two children fall silent.

  They looked up at her, their eyes wide and mouths open in surprise. Agnes rarely raised her voice.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ Henry asked.

  Agnes dashed at her cheek, where the betraying tears streamed from her eyes. She dropped to her knees and gathered the two now-silent children into her arms.

  Dear God, what is to become of us, she thought.

  ‘Your father … ’ A sob caught in her throat.

  Lizzie stood rigid in the circle of her arms.

  ‘He’s dead?’

  All Agnes could do was nod in reply to Lizzie as the tears coursed unchecked down her cheeks. Henry began to wail and burrowed his golden head into Agnes’s shoulder.

  They had gone to visit James yesterday, a last visit permitted by the authorities. Perhaps, she had thought, as James went down on his knees to hold his children for the last time, it would have been easier on them all if they had stayed away. The memory of James’s fair head bent over his children filled her eyes again.

  He had risen to his feet and taken her hands in his. ‘Agnes, dear Agnes,’ he had said. ‘Tomorrow I die, and you must be father as well as mother to the children. You must fight for them. There is no one else.’

  No one else except his cousin, Tobias Ashby, but for once Tobias’s malevolent shadow stayed away. Even he had the decency to allow father and children this last farewell.

  There had been so much she wanted to say to James, but the words stuck in her throat. He smiled, a soft sad smile, and picked up a book from the table.

  ‘Take this,’ he said, pressing it into her hands. ‘A memento of me, and of our affection for each other.’

  “Our affection for each other.” Agnes had never been under any illusion that James loved her. She had given herself to him willingly, seeking the comfort and reassurance of his presence but knowing she could never have his love. She wondered now if James Ashby had been capable of loving anyone but himself.

  He had kissed her, a soft kiss on her forehead, and she had gathered up the children and walked away from him. He would never know how she had longed for him to take her in his arms, and for the kiss to be that of the lover she had known, not a dear friend.

  The tread of heavy boots on the gallery outside the room brought her back to the present. Agnes jumped to her feet, wiping the last of the tears from her face and straightening the children’s collars. She waited for the knock on the door.

  Three burly soldiers entered, followed by someone she had come to know well in the past few years; Captain Septimus Turner, Tobias Ashby’s ever-present captain of horse. Turner scanned the room before bringing his gaze to rest on the woman and the two children who cowered behind her skirts.

  ‘Madam, it is my unhappy duty to inform you that the traitor James Ashby is dead,’ Turner said, without a flicker of emotion in his face.

  Agnes tightened her grip on the children’s hands. Henry shrank back and Lizzie buried her face in the bunched skirts of Agnes’s gown, muffling her sobs.

  Taking a deep breath, Agnes gathered her courage to ask the question that had kept her wakeful for too many nights. ‘What is to become of the children?’

  Turner glanced at Henry and Elizabeth with cold, dispassionate eyes.

  ‘You will be summoned to Whitehall when your petition has been considered by the Committee. In the meantime you are to remain here. You are not to leave London.’

  ‘I can only pray that will not be too long,’ Agnes said, thinking of her empty purse. ‘The children should be returned to their home as soon as possible.’

  Ignoring her, Turner turned to his men. ‘We have the traitor’s personal possessions. Where do you want us to put them?’

  Agnes’s resolve buckled at the sight of the familiar metal-bound box that James had taken with him into the Tower. Only her need to stay calm for the children steadied her.

  ‘Well?’ Turner demanded.

  She waved vaguely at a dark corner of the inn room. ‘Over there. Tell me … was it … quick?’’

  The man considered her for a moment. ‘I was not present, but the Colonel assures me he died bravely and in the love of God, madam.’

  Of course Tobias would have been there.

  Agnes straightened and replied in an icy tone, ‘That is of no comfort.’

  Turner’s gaze met hers and for a brief moment some emotion, anger or amusement, she could not tell, flashed in his eyes.

  He inclined his head and half turned for the door. ‘I reiterate, you are not to leave London, Mistress Fletcher.’

  ‘Am I under arrest?’ Agnes raised her chin, cursing her lack of inches.

  The man shook his head. ‘No, but we will know if you try to leave and it will do your cause no favours.’

  She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘And where would I go, Captain Turner? I have no money and no friends who would take us in.’

  Not if they did not wish to incur the wrath of the children’s only other living relative, Colonel Tobias Ashby. Tobias had been high in favour under Cromwell. Of course, since the Lord Protector’s death the world had shifted on its axis, and she considered the betrayal of his cousin may have been Tobias’s attempt to keep in favour with the new regime.

  Agnes straightened. She could not imagine any other outcome other than a safe return home to Charvaley.

  ‘I will pray to God and put my trust in this Committee. I would remind you that I am the children’s aunt and closer by blood than the Colonel,’ she said.

  Turner regarded her without expression. He had no interest in hearing her plead her case; his loyalty lay entirely with Tobias.

  He inclined his head. ‘You will receive word when you are to appear before the Committee. Good day to you, madam.’ He jerked his head at his soldiers. ‘Come.’

  The door slammed closed behind them and Agnes’s resolve failed. She sank to her knees, burying her face in her hands as she wept. This time the arms of the two children circled her, as they added their tears to hers.

  Chapter 2

  Bruges, the Lowlands

  October 27, 1659

  Daniel Lovell stood at a window in the makeshift audience room, looking down at the canal below, along which a barge laden with wool, probably from England, made its leisurely way. A steady drizzle of rain ran down the lead panes of the windows, adding a general bleakness to the morning.

  No one paid him any heed. Behind his back the courtiers, dressed in their finery, jabbered like parrots. A parody of a king’s court, Daniel thought. Up close t
he frayed cuffs and patched linen of those same courtiers bore testament to the reality of life lived in the shadow of an exiled king.

  When L’Archange had docked in Le Havre he could have taken ship for England, but he had come to Charles’s court in Bruges for one reason only. The person he sought would not be found in England, not in the tumbled ruins of Eveleigh Priory. If his brother were still alive, he would be here with the King. If not, at least here he could find someone who could tell him where Kit — or his grave — could be found.

  Below him the barge passed, and his thoughts were interrupted by the crash of a door opening. A sonorous voice announced the arrival of His Majesty. Daniel turned to face his King, sweeping, like the others, into a deep bow.

  At the age of eighteen Daniel Lovell had gone into battle beside this man; both carried with them dreams of honour and glory and the rightful avenging of the deaths — no, murders — of their fathers.

  At the end of that bloody day, the King had become a fugitive in his own land and Daniel, nursing a wound to his right arm, had huddled against the tomb of King John in the great Cathedral of Worcester, a prisoner like the hundreds of others who had survived the battle. With the cold stone pressed against his face, he had hoped that no one would notice the shaming tears of humiliation.

  His idea of vengeance at the age of eighteen had been ill-conceived and vague. The naive boy who had donned his father’s armour and taken up his sword had died that day as surely as if a sword had pierced his heart. Eight years of exile had honed his bitterness like a blade and now it sat on his shoulders like a carrion bird, picking at the shreds of his memory.

  As he rose from his bow and looked into the dark, lined face of the King, it struck him that this man, only three years his senior, still had that indefinable aura that had inspired those who had answered his call all those years ago in the belief that they could vanquish Cromwell and regain the throne. But, like Daniel himself, the hopeful boy the King had been in 1651 had gone. Exile had aged Charles Stuart beyond his years.