Free The Rebel’s Daughter by Anita Seymour Page B

Master Ffoyle.” The
magistrate avoided Samuel’s gaze, as if he were reluctant to be
there. “This officer has business with Sir Jonathan
Woulfe.”
    A grimace of distaste passed across the
officer’s face, one already marred by a livid scar that ran from
beneath his right eye to the corner of his mouth. “I have orders
here for the arrest of Sir Jonathan Woulfe.” His voice a snarl as
he withdrew a parchment from his coat. “On the charge of treason
against His Majesty King James the Second, and the seizure of all
his goods and property.”
    Henry groaned. “How had they arrived so
quickly, Tobias? They must have captured Father.”
    “ Quiet,
Master Henry!” Tobias silenced him with a painful grip on his
shoulder.
    Samuel took his time to read the document
through. His ploy did not work, for the other soldiers had
dismounted and stormed the house. The thump of booted feet on
floorboards drifted across the yard, accompanied by a man’s shout
and a shrill female protest.
    Samuel held his hands out in surrender,
the paper held aloft as if its contents confused him. “What is the
meaning of this? Sir Jonathan is in London, sir, on Court
business.”
    The officer narrowed his eyes and said
something Henry couldn’t hear above the sound of a crash from
inside the house. At a shouted order, the remainder of the troop
fanned out through the grounds.
    “ Henry,”
Tobias said, his voice low and urgent. “Find somewhere to hide. I
think there’s going to be trouble.”
    Henry gave a brisk nod, then scampered
round the side of the stable toward the dairy and kitchen garden.
Both appeared empty, but he had no intention of hiding - not with
Mother still in the house. He had to protect her. Listening for the
crunch of booted feet, he crept around the fruit bushes in the
kitchen garden. Having reached a side-door, he had already dragged
it half-open when a rough hand grabbed him by the
collar.
    “ And
where might you be goin'?” a rough voice snarled close to his
ear.
    A fist struck Henry in his lower back,
cutting off his response. His lungs emptied, the momentum of the
blow sending him barrelling into the wall. He bounced off the
stonework and he slid to the ground.
    “ Hopin'
to grab some of the valu'bles wuz we, lad?” The soldier, in a
stained leather jerkin and battered hat, stood over him,
grinning.
    Dazed, Henry staggered to his feet, but the
soldier cuffed him again, sending him sprawling. This time, he
stayed put, his cheek pressed into the gravel.
    The soldier gave an obscene oath Henry
only half-understood, and with a throaty laugh, moved
away.
    When he was certain he had gone, Henry
wobbled to his feet, heart thumping. He gave silent thanks to
Samuel for insisting he wear groom’s clothes that morning. Had that
soldier known who he was, the treatment would have been far
worse.
    Henry staggered into a rear corridor, where
two soldiers had found the meat locker and were tussling over a
joint of cooked ham.
    Sara, the kitchen maid, stood with her hands
on her hips, glaring at them as if they were naughty children.
    A third soldier with greasy hair hanging in
rats-tails raked Henry with speculative eyes, which dulled when he
saw nothing to interest him. With a contemptuous snarl, he gestured
Henry away.
    Henry turned and fled before the man
changed his mind. Jumping at every sound, he crept along the
corridor, peering into each room as he passed. They all stood
empty, the floors strewn with items emptied from drawers and
chests.
    When he reached the main hall, a sound
from above brought his gaze up to where a soldier descended the
stairs. His arms were full of linens and what appeared to be a
tapestry that used to be hanging in one of the bedrooms.
    Betty Humbold followed behind. Showing no
more fear than Sara had, she hurled insults and muttered curses,
all of which the soldier ignored.
    He grinned evilly over his shoulder as he
gained the front door, leaving Betty to hurl frustrated abuse from
the newel