Phoebe almost fell from her perch in her excitement. As she reached the track, Cato with Giles and four other Granville men came galloping towards her.

“It was the king!” Phoebe shouted as they reached her.

“What!” Cato hauled back on the reins and his horse came to a rearing, plunging halt, the others following suit. “What did you say?”

“The king! He just went past here.” Phoebe pointed down the track.

“Are you sure?” Giles demanded, staring at her.

Phoebe’s chin went up. She said with that faint hauteur that Cato had noticed before, “Do you doubt me, Lieutenant? I assure you I’ve seen the king many times.”

Her tone had its effect. Giles looked for once a trifle discomfited. He coughed and then said, “We’d best be after ‘im then, m’lord.” He kicked his horse and it leaped forward.

“Follow me!” he yelled to his men, and they galloped in pursuit of His Sovereign Majesty King Charles.

“They won’t catch them,” Phoebe said to Cato, who had not followed Giles. “They were going like bats out of hell.”

“I had an inkling,” Cato murmured, more to himself than to Phoebe. “When those three didn’t even stay to fight, I had a feeling one of them was of more importance than the rest. But fool that I am, it never occurred to me we had the king within our grasp.”

“I saw him clear as day.”

“Well, he’s away now,” Cato said with a vigorous oath. “And if I know anything, he’s heading for the Scottish border.”

This was a significant development. If Charles had fled Oxford and was heading for Scottish protection, it must mean he’d given up hope of prevailing against Parliament. He would surrender to the Scots, who would guarantee his safety and their support to regain his throne, in exchange for his commitment to establish the Presbyterian Church in England. A commitment Cato, from his knowledge of the king, was convinced Charles would not make.

He would prevaricate; he would negotiate; he might appear to agree; but in the end he would renege. The king’s false dealings with both the Irish and the Scots were well known. He was a supreme wriggler, a past master at the art of making and breaking promises, of twisting his own words and those of his advisors to make a simple statement suddenly mean something quite other.

“We lost ‘im.” Giles’s disconsolate shout preceded his reappearance. “Vanished into thin air. Should we search the countryside, sir?”

“We don’t have enough men,” Cato replied. “And we need to attend to the wounded. Get Jackson and Carter to organize a litter party, and have the others escort the prisoners to headquarters. You accompany me back to the manor. I’ll write up a dispatch and you can take it straight off to headquarters.”

“Aye, sir.” Giles rode back to where the sounds of fighting had now ceased.

Cato reached down a hand for Phoebe, who hopped for his boot, clutching her basket, as he pulled her up.

“You’re not hurt?” she asked, turning to look at him over her shoulder.

“Not a scratch,” he said, absently removing a twig from her hair before licking his thumb and wiping a smudge of dirt from her cheek.

“It was the tree,” Phoebe said.

“Yes,” he agreed, looking back down the path, a frown in his eyes.

“What would have happened if you’d caught the king?”

“Good question,” Cato said, his tone abstracted.

Phoebe didn’t press for further information. The exhilaration of excitement was wearing off and her brave front with it.

“Right y’are, sir.” Giles came up with them. “They’re seein‘ to the litters. Job’s got a nasty sword gash, but the rest is minor, I reckon. The prisoners is on their way.”

Cato nodded and they started off back down the path towards the village.

“You think there’ll be talk at ‘eadquarters, m’lord, about us lettin’ the king slip, like?” Giles ventured after a minute. His tone was unusually tentative.

“No!” Cato responded sharply. “Why should there be? We didn’t even know he was there.”

“Jest that I ‘eard rumors, like,” Giles said with a shrug. “Like what not everyone’s fer gettin’ rid o‘ the king.”

“You mean, like I’m not,” Cato said with a touch of acid.

“Well, summat like that.”

Phoebe was listening intently now. This touched upon what she had overheard last night in headquarters, the altercation between Cato and Cromwell that she’d listened to as she lay upstairs on the cot. It had sounded serious to her then. Now it seemed there were ramifications.

Cato and Giles appeared to have forgotten her presence on Cato’s saddle. “I’m not sure what I think, Giles,” Cato said with a sigh. “But I’m not going to rush to judgment. There’s too much at stake.”

“There’s those that would send ‘im into exile,” Giles observed.

“Aye. And it may come to that. But I’ll reserve judgment for the time being.”

“So you don’t think anyone’ll remark on our lettin‘ ’im slip, then?” Giles repeated.

“They might, I suppose.” Cato shrugged. “It’s of little matter to me. I answer to my own conscience.”

Giles made no comment but began to whistle tunelessly through his teeth, and Phoebe had the sense that he questioned his lord’s wisdom but was not about to say so.

“I’ll write that dispatch, Giles. Give me half an hour and then come and fetch it,” Cato said as they rode up the drive.

“Right y’are, sir.” Giles turned his horse towards the stable block.

Cato dismounted at the front door and lifted Phoebe down. He didn’t release her immediately, his hold moving instead to her upper arms. But Phoebe thought that he didn’t seem to know she was there. He stared over her head into the dark line of trees along the driveway. She stood still under his hands, hardly breathing. He didn’t seem to acknowledge her and yet she had the feeling he was about to say something. Then abruptly he looked down at her and his eyes were puzzled, as if she didn’t look at all as he’d expected.

“My lord?” she prompted hesitantly.

“I wish… I wish…” Then he shook his head, released her, and strode into the house.

Phoebe followed slowly. What did he wish?

Chapter 16

Cato finished his dispatch and then sat staring into the darkness beyond his window, his fingernails tapping a rhythm on the smooth polished surface of his desk.

What did he wish?

Peace? Quiet? The orderly existence of an ordinary marriage? A wife who would not follow her conscience regardless of danger and regardless of who she dragged in her wake?

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. He just didn’t know.

Abruptly he rose from his desk and went in search of Phoebe.

The parlor was empty but his eye fell on the sheets of vellum scattered over the table. Idly he glanced down at the untidy, ink-splattered scrawl. It must be this pageant she was always talking about, he realized, picking up several of the pages.

The notes in the margin were elaborate and impressive, detailing costumes, positioning, gestures of the actors. His vague curiosity became genuine interest as he read, turning the pages, picking up others as he finished.

He was deep in a scene between the young Elizabeth and Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. It was a love scene. And somehow he found himself reading the rich flow of language aloud in the deserted parlor. So absorbed was he, he didn’t hear the door open behind him.

“Oh, gentle lady, sweet queen, be kind. Stay awhile and let my hungry eyes feast upon thy beauty. To be absent from thy heart is torment. Take all my love, my heart, my soul, and make them thine.”

“Indeed, fair friend, a queen will take such gifts and will not love the less. A sovereign no longer in your sight, but a woman bound in love, a love more powerful than the gilded thrones of princes.”

Cato spun around as Phoebe’s soft voice recited Gloriana’s reply to her lover. He stared at her for a moment as if seeing her for the first time as she stood in the doorway, her hand still on the latch. Her eyes were aglow, her cheeks softly flushed, her expression almost dreamy. It was as if she’d been living the words she’d spoken, lost in the fantasy world of her play.