men.
Phoebe said no more. She found the idea of spending the night in an army camp intensely interesting, but if Cato realized that, he’d probably be even more disagreeable.
It was almost full dark when they turned through the gates of the Cotswold stone farmhouse that served as Cromwell’s headquarters. The tented camp spread out across the surrounding farmland, and lamps and fires sparked through the trees. The strains of a fife and the martial beat of a drum drifted on the frosty air.
Phoebe looked around curiously from her high perch. She was no longer gritting her teeth in fear and was sitting quite relaxed as the bay limped slowly up the driveway. He seemed to know where he was, and raised his head and whickered hopefully.
Cato patted his neck. “Not long now, old boy.”
The animal turned and nuzzled into Cato’s shoulder before picking up his pace a little.
The farmhouse was a squat, square, two-story building of yellow Cotswold stone. A courtyard in front was formed by outbuildings on two sides and the house itself at the rear.
Men were moving purposefully around the courtyard, carrying sacks, loading and unloading carts, under the flickering lights of pitch torches. Cato hailed a soldier, who immediately dropped what he was doing and came hurrying over, offering a brisk salute.
“Yes, m’lord.” His eyes darted once to Phoebe, then returned to the marquis.
“My horse is lame. Take him to the stables, have them poultice the fetlock and give him a bran mash. The poultice is to be changed every hour throughout the night. Understand?”
The soldier listened to the crisp instructions and saluted again before taking the bay’s bridle from Cato, who reached up to help Phoebe to the ground. The soldier glanced at her more openly now and with unfeigned admiration.
Phoebe responded with one of her customary friendly smiles. The soldier grinned back. Cato took her elbow and said briskly, “Come.”
He hurried her across the court to the house. “It’s inevitable that you’ll draw attention, Phoebe, but there’s no need to invite it,” he said curtly.
“I didn’t realize I was,” she responded. “I didn’t speak to him. I only smiled at him after he’d started looking at me.” She paused to look around, fascinated by the scene.
“There are a lot of things you don’t realize,” Cato said. She had no idea of the effect her lushly sensual appearance was going to have in this world of an army camp.
He put a hand on the small of her back and propelled her in front of him to the front door of the house.
The man guarding it jumped to attention and flung open the door. Phoebe found herself in a beamed, stone-flagged hall that took up the entire ground floor of the house. It was filled with men, most of whom were sitting on benches along a long plank table in the center of the room. Great smoking platters of meat and leather flagons of wine were on the table.
“Cato!” someone bellowed from one end of the table. “Welcome, man! We weren’t expecting you.” A tall man pushed back the bench and stood up, coming over to them, his ale mug still in his hand.
“Aye, my horse went lame after an encounter with some deserters, and I was afraid we’d be benighted.” Cato shook the man’s hand. “We’ll seek shelter here till morning, Oliver.” He turned to Phoebe, who was unclasping her cloak. “This is General Cromwell, Phoebe. Olher, may I present my wife.”
Phoebe curtsied. So this was Oliver Cromwell. He was ill dressed, she thought, in a very plain suit of poor cut and material. His linen was grimy and there was a speck of blood on his collar band.
“Lady Granville, I bid you welcome,” he said with a short bow. He had a grating voice and his countenance was rather red and seemed swollen to Phoebe. She wondered if it was drink. He certainly cut a poor figure beside Cato. She took off her hat and stood a mite awkwardly, unsure what to do next.
“We’re ill equipped to entertain a lady,” the general continued, “but come to the table. You’ll be glad to sup, I’ll be bound.”
“Aye, we’re famished.” Cato took Phoebe’s cloak and hat and tossed them both over a settle close to the fire, before urging her towards the table. “Gentlemen, may I present my wife.” He moved her in front of him as they reached the table. The man gathered there all half rose from their benches, nodding to Phoebe, who curtsied shyly.
“Sit down, Lady Granville.” An aesthetic-looking gentleman, rather older than the others, and dressed with impeccable style, brought a stool and set it at a corner of the table. “You’ll have to forgive our rough manners, but we’re an army camp and ill used to gentle company.” He smiled as he gestured to the stool.
“This is General, Lord Fairfax,” Cato said. “Sit down, Phoebe. And when you’ve supped, I’ll find somewhere for you to sleep.”
To Phoebe’s alarm, he moved away from her as soon as he’d provided her with a platter of roast suckling pig, a mound of buttery boiled potatoes, a hunk of wheaten bread, and a pewter cup of wine. He took a place on one of the long benches some distance from her and was soon deep in conversation. No one took any notice of her after that.
Phoebe ate and listened to the buzz of voices, the occasional burst of laughter. She felt both neglected and seriously out of place. She understood now why Cato had been reluctant to bring her here, but she wished he had not abandoned her.
Cato cast her a quick glance now and again, relieved to see that for once she was behaving with perfect propriety, eating in silence and making no attempt to draw attention to herself. The men around the table were considerately ignoring her, knowing how uncomfortable she must be feeling. The main problem was where she was to sleep. He frowned, ladling vegetable soup into his bowl.
Phoebe had finished her platter of suckling pig, but she was still hungry and the rich aroma of the soup was tantalizing. The great tureen, however, seemed to have come to a stop beside Cato. She tried casting a speaking look in his direction, but he was deep in conversation about horse breeding, a subject that clearly interested him more than the welfare of his wife.
She hesitated for a second, then lifted her chin and got up from her stool. There were a few surprised glances as she came around the table to Cato and the tureen.
“What is it?” Cato asked, with a quick displeased frown.
“May I have some soup?” She met his frown with another little tilt of her chin.
It was hardly an unreasonable request, although it had done what he’d been trying to avoid and every eye was now upon her. “Sit down, then,” Cato instructed with a crisp edge to his voice. He inched up on the bench and put an arm at her waist as she clambered over.
“There’s a shortage of bowls and spoons, so you’ll have to use mine.” He refilled his bowl and passed it to her with the spoon. “Take what you want and I’ll finish it. Then I’ll find you somewhere to sleep.”
He wanted her to hurry and Phoebe obliged. She didn’t think she could endure many more minutes in this uncomfortable situation. Even Cato’s proximity was for once no help, and the impatience he was radiating destroyed her pleasure in the soup.
She put the spoon down and said, “I’ve finished, thank you, my lord.”
“Good. Let’s go abovestairs.” He swung off the bench with alacrity and helped her to her feet.
“Good night, Lady Granville. I trust you won’t be too disturbed,” Cromwell said. “We’re not all the quietest of sleepers.” Someone guffawed at this and there were a few more muted chuckles.
Now, just what did that mean?
“I bid you good night, gentlemen,” Phoebe said with a little curtsy to the company.
She followed Cato across the room to a narrow staircase at the far end. She understood the significance of Cromwell’s comment when they got to the top of the stairs. There was one long room under the eaves. It was lined with cots and leather-bound trunks.
“Does everyone sleep up here?” Her eyes widened at the implications. “All those men?”
“I did tell you there wasn’t any privacy,” Cato reminded her, holding up the lamp he’d carried up from the hall below. “It’s the very devil of a situation!”
“I didn’t make it happen,” she pointed out, stung. “If you like, I’ll go and sleep with the horses.”
Cato shot her a swift appraising glance. “This is hardly the time for jesting,” he observed aridly. He returned to his examination of the long room. “We’ll just have to make the best of it. Over here will do as well as anywhere.” He moved to the rear of the loft.
Phoebe followed, threading her way through the lines of cots. “But don’t the beds belong to people?”
Cato shook his head. “No. There’ll be folk moving in and out of them all night as the watch changes. No one lays claim to any one space.”
“Oh.” Phoebe looked around a mite helplessly.
“Here, this one’ll do. It’s against the wall, so you’ll only have one neighbor.” He gestured to a cot in the corner. “There’s a blanket and a pillow of sorts. Don’t strip down beyond your shift.”
“I wasn’t about to,” Phoebe said. “Where will you sleep?”
“I’ll decide when I come up later.” He set the oil lamp on one of the chests at the foot of the cot. “Turn down the wick when you’re in bed.”
“Yes, but… but I need the privy,” Phoebe said in sudden panic. “I can’t go to bed without using it.”
Cato swore.
“I can’t help it,” Phoebe protested. “Everyone has to go sometimes. Even soldiers!”
Despite himself, Cato’s lips twitched. She had a point. “There’s an outhouse at the rear of the kitchen garden. No one uses it. Take the lantern and go down that way.” He gestured to a stairway that was little more than a ladder at the rear of the loft. “You shouldn’t meet anyone, but if you do, don’t talk, just be quick.”
He hastened away, obviously in a great hurry to get back to his cronies, Phoebe reflected acidly. She took up the lantern and went to find the outhouse.
She returned to the long dormitory having met no one on her journey. She took off her outer garments, laying them tidily over the chest. Her shift felt very skimpy as she stood by the cot. She could hear laughter from below and lamplight showed through the spaces in the floorboards. If she listened hard, she could distinguish snatches of conversation and recognize some of the voices.
She extinguished the lamp and lay down on the narrow cot, pulling the thin blanket over her. The pillow and mattress were stuffed with straw and crackled when she turned over. She lay listening to the sounds from below. The laughter had ceased and there was a different tenor to their voices, as if, supper over, they had returned to business. Phoebe identified the rich, mellow cadences of Cato s voice interspersed with the sharp and unmelodious tones of Cromwell and the lighter tones of General Fairfax. It sounded as if they were in dispute.
“If a man hasn’t the courage to take the ultimate step, then I can’t help but question his commitment,” Cromwell said, his voice nasal and strident.
“I trust it’s not my commitment you’re questioning.” Cato’s voice was even, almost amused, as if such an idea were laughable.
“You’d vote to depose the king?” Cromwell demanded.
Phoebe listened, straining to catch Cato’s reply. “It’s not a step to be taken lightly,” he replied after a minute. “We force peace on our terms. I see no reason to do more.”
“You think the king would abide by such an agreement?” The question came from General Fairfax and produced a buzz of response from the company.
“I think we must assume that he would.” Cato’s response was firm, rising over the buzz. “I didn’t enter this war to establish a republic.”
“Then this war has overtaken you,” Cromwell declared. “It’s no longer a gentlemanly exercise to persuade Our Sovereign Majesty to heed the wishes of his subjects.” His voice was bitter and ironic. “It’s a fight for the right to rule England. And I say the people’s rule must hold sway.”
“You go too far for me, Oliver,” Cato said, as firmly and evenly as before. “But we can surely agree to differ on the final outcome without throwing accusations of disloyalty at one another.”
“Aye, you have the right of it, Cato,” Fairfax said warmly. “Oliver, ‘tis foolish to fall out with your friends.”
“I said nothing about disloyalty,” Cromwell declared. “Only of a failure of commitment. But you’re right, ‘tis too early to talk of such things. Let us win first.”
This was received with a rousing cheer and stamping feet and the sound of goblets being banged upon the table in resounding approval.
Phoebe drifted off to this lullaby.
She awoke in darkness, faintly aware through the clinging tendrils of sleep of the sounds of breathing, of snores, the creaking of straw palliasses as men shifted in sleep. For a moment she was disoriented, then she felt the hand on her back and she remembered.
