The Chevalier

Book 7: Morland Dynasty

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

1689: the Resoration enabled the Morland family to restore their own fortune, but now the Jacobite rebellion brings another threat to their security.

Annuciata Morland, fiercely loyal to the Stuart cause, follows her beloved king, James II, into exile. She leaves her gentle grandson, Matt, to oversee Morland Place in her absence. Without her wise presence, Matt finds himself in an arranged marriage to India Neville and at the mercy of a woman as heartless as she is beautiful. After a lonely and sheltered life he lurches between the exquisite pain of love and the torment of deep despair.

When James III – the Chevalier – returns to claim the Stuart throne, the Morlands are reunited in one country. Death and defeat threaten them, but their loves and loyalty prove stronger than kingly ambitions.

Release date: August 25, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 416

Sample

That February day of 1689 had been frozen from its sluggish beginnings. The earth was bound in a pitiless frost like an iron
glove that had never looked like easing; two hours after noon the light was already dying from a sky like stone. Dinner had
been early, and of winter meagreness, but the maids had just gone round the house replenishing all the fires with stacked
logs and pressed blocks of peat, so there was comfort to be had within each golden flickering radius.


The steward’s room was small enough to be lit by its fire without candles, and here the family and the senior servants had
gathered. James Matthias, the heir to Morland Place, who was only five years old, thought that they were like cattle gathered
under one tree for warmth. He had seen the overwintering cattle bunched together like that, with the apprehension of hunger
in their eyes. Later he could recall the meeting with great clarity, although he did not remember much of what it was about.


James Matthias, generally known as Little Matt, had wriggled in ahead of the others to get a good place on the floor before
the fire, and here he was joined by his cousin, Arthur, Viscount Ballincrea, who was nearly seven and bullied Matt; as well
as the dogs, Fand, the blue wolfhound belonging to the Countess, and his father’s young bitch Kithra. The dogs shoved their
hard, lean bodies against the boys until they had worked their way as close to the flames as they could, and then they collapsed
on to their sides with sighs of content. Both had been rolling in cowdung, but it wasn’t a smell Matt minded. The other children
were too young to be included in the meeting, being all under two years old, and they were up in the nursery with Flora, the wet-nurse. It made Matt feel grown-up and important that he was not with them.


Having settled himself with the dogs between him and Arthur, who sometimes pinched him slyly just for the pleasure of hurting
him, Matt looked about the room. In the black, carved fireside chair sat Matt’s grandmother, Annunciata, Countess of Chelmsford,
a person of such eminence to Matt that even when he was in the same room with her he could hardly believe she was real. She
was dressed all in black, and round her throat she wore a glittering diamond collar, which had been given to her by King Charles
II, while on her breast she wore the gold and diamond cross which was one of the Percy jewels, a Morland heirloom. The diamonds
flashed brilliant rainbow colours in the moving firelight; Matt thought she was like the Queen of Winter in the legend.


Matt’s father, Martin, who was Master of Morland Place, stood behind her chair with his hands resting on the chairback so
that they just touched the Countess’s shoulders. Matt loved his father dearly, but indeed, so did everyone. He was a small
man, thin and wiry and brown-skinned like a hazel-nut, with soft, curly dark hair and small, dark-blue, twinkling eyes, and
a mouth that seemed to smile even in repose; even now, when his face was grave and sad. He was the Countess’s stepson for
the Countess had once been married to Martin’s father, Ralph Morland.


Sitting on the floor beside her chair were the Countess’s two surviving sons by Ralph Morland, Charles, Earl of Chelmsford,
always called Karellie, who was eighteen, and Maurice, a year younger. Behind this group were the representatives of the servants:
Clement, the steward, whose forefathers had been stewards at Morland Place time out of mind, and his son Valentine who was
butler; the chaplain, old Father St Maur, who had cropped grey hair and very bright dark eyes in his brown, wrinkled face;
Jane Birch, the governess, sour-faced, sharp-tongued and heavy-handed; and the Countess’s waiting woman, Chloris, very beautiful
with red-gold curls and violet eyes.


Now Matt’s eyes turned in the other direction, towards the man whose unexpected arrival that morning had caused this meeting
to be called. He was Uncle Clovis, who was half-brother to Ralph Morland but much younger than he. Matt had hardly ever seen
him before, though he knew quite a lot about him, for Clovis lived mostly in London where he acted as factor to the family’s
wool and cloth business, and also had some position at Court.


When everyone was settled, the Countess said, ‘Let us hear your news. You may speak freely – we are quite safe here. There
is no one in the house I do not trust.’


Clovis nodded and drew out from his breast a much-folded and much-stained letter. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is from my brother Edmund
in St Omer. No need, I think, to go into details of how it reached me –’


‘It is better not to speak of those things,’ Martin interposed quickly. ‘What is not said cannot be repeated. Will you read
it to us?’


Clovis held the letter in his hand, but did not look at it. He addressed the company as a whole, but his eyes never left the
Countess’s face.


‘It is written mostly in a code Edmund and I have used from time to time, but I can tell you the gist of it. It says that
King James reached France safely and joined the Queen and the Prince of Wales. King Louis of France has given them the Palace
of St Germain, just outside Paris, for their home. He has been most generous to them, giving them money, furnishing the palace,
redecorating the nurseries for the Prince of Wales. He treats King James with all royal state, and they are often together.
They were together when the news came that Parliament has given the crown jointly to Princess Mary and Prince William of Orange.
That was on the 16th.’


‘Fast travelling, even for bad news,’ Martin said gravely. ‘They got the news almost as soon as we did.’

Little Matt remembered the day that the news had come, the shock first, and then the anger. Parliament had decided that the
King, by leaving the country, had abdicated. Prince William, the Dutch husband of the King’s elder daughter Mary, was occupying London with his soldiers. Parliament had
offered the throne to Princess Mary, but William had angrily refused to be his wife’s ‘gentleman usher’ and had forced them
to hand the crown to them jointly. Parliament had done so on condition that a Protestant succession was guaranteed, so that
no Catholic might ever again sit upon the throne of England. That meant that after William’s death, Princess Mary’s sister
Princess Anne must have the crown.


Matt remembered the Countess’s fury. ‘So Parliament takes it upon itself to pass the Crown of England from hand to hand like
a parcel of tea!’ she had raged. ‘The Dutchman made King! The Prince of Wales removed from the succession! As if they have
the right – as if they have the competence!’


‘But at least there are to be no reprisals,’ Martin had said, trying to comfort her. ‘No action to be taken against those
of us who resisted him.’


‘He wants it to appear that he took the throne by public demand and not by the force of arms,’ Annunciata had said bitterly.
‘He will leave us alone until enough people believe the lie that the King abdicated – and then –’


Morland Place had been badly damaged during the siege following William of Orange’s invasion. Matt tried not to remember those
terrible days. The damage to the house had only been sketchily repaired as yet, and Annunciata and Martin expressed their
fears readily enough to Matt, though they had not voiced them.


Clovis glanced at Edmund’s letter again, and continued.

‘The King was gravely shocked, of course, especially by the heartless behaviour of his daughters, but he and King Louis began
to make plans at once.’ Matt could feel from Clovis’s voice that he was coming to the important part of the letter. ‘King
Louis is to give the King money and men enough to equip an entire expedition.’


The Countess almost rose to her feet. ‘To England,’ she said eagerly.

Clovis shook his head. ‘Not England at first. To Ireland – the Catholics there will rise in support, and when he has Ireland,
it will make a safe base from which to cross to England.’


‘Who is to command?’ Annunciata asked. There were questions in every face, but it seemed natural that she should voice them.

‘The Comte de Lauzun will be commander in chief, but the King will go himself, of course, with the Duke of Berwick.’

‘Berwick is a good soldier,’ Annunciata said approvingly. ‘My son Hugo fought with him against the Turks, and knew him in
the Monmouth campaign. He spoke highly of him. It seems that the King is luckier in his bastard son than in his legitimate
daughters,’ she added harshly.


Now Karellie spoke for the first time. ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘is not my lord of Berwick the King’s son by Arabella Churchill?
And did not her brother John Churchill desert the King for the Prince of Orange? I wonder that the King can trust him.’


‘Berwick is sound,’ Annunciata said abruptly. ‘John Churchill cares for nothing but his own career. He is ruled by his wife,
and his wife has Princess Anne safe in her pocket, and so they think the Protestant succession will offer them the best chance
of advancement and riches. If Princess Anne is ever Queen, they hope to hold the highest places in the land. Remember that,’
she added bitterly to her children, ‘that is what Protestantism does – it replaces faith, duty, loyalty and obedience with
self-interest. You saw how Princess Anne betrayed her own father …’


Martin’s hands came down in a restraining sort of way on her shoulders, and Karellie, turning his face up to her, said gently,
‘It’s all right, Mother. Maurice and I have better examples to follow.’


‘When is the expedition to be?’ Martin asked Clovis, who was waiting patiently to return to the matter in hand.

‘Very soon. They hope to land in Ireland in two weeks’ time.’

There was a silence. Maurice was looking at Clovis, but not as if he saw him. Karellie turned his face from Clovis to his
mother, gazing up at her with an eager, questioning expression. The Countess shook her head minutely at him, and then looked
up at Martin, and Martin, searching her face, spoke at last.


‘We must decide what to do.’

And now the Countess put her hand up to cover Martin’s, which rested on her shoulder. Matt, watching, saw how white and long
the Countess’s hand was, how square and brown his father’s; more than that, he saw how there was a strange quietness about
them, as if they were alone together in a place away from everyone else. Their eyes, and the lightly touching hands, were
exchanging messages in some way, as if they were reading each other’s thoughts.


Finally the Countess said, as if the words continued a long conversation they had had that no one else had heard, ‘No, you
must decide what to do. You are the Master of Morland Place. It is for you to say.’


After that the talk went on for a long time, and Matt, growing weary, half-dozed amongst the dogs, letting the flow of words
go over him like water, feeling the shape of them without listening for the meaning. Finally he slept in truth, and woke to
Birch’s hands pulling him up to his feet. Everyone was leaving the room, Clovis ushering them out quietly. Matt, looking round,
half-dazed, saw the Countess and his father standing near the window, evidently waiting for privacy. Birch was tugging at
his hand, and he stumbled after her, hearing the door of the steward’s room click closed behind him, leaving those two quiet
figures alone with the dogs and the firelight.


The cold outside in the great staircase hall woke Matt to shivering, and he picked his feet up and hurried with Birch and
Arthur to get upstairs and to another fire. Birch dropped Arthur’s hand to lift her skirts clear of the stairs, and Arthur
said, ‘I’m hungry. I’m hungry, Birch.’


‘You’re always hungry,’ Birch replied in automatic rebuke.


‘But I am. I had hardly anything at dinner.’

They reached the turn of the stair, and Matt, glancing down despite himself, saw the chequered tiles of the hall floor and
remembered them strewn with blood and dead men. That was when the rebels smashed their way in at the end of the siege. He
never wanted to remember, but the visions always broke through, triggered by certain things, always the same things, somehow
unavoidable. He crossed himself, and seeing the gesture out of the corner of her eye, Birch softened.


‘Well, well, perhaps I can find you something,’ she said. ‘Poor children. God knows what will come of all this. Poor things.
Hurry on, now. We’ll go to the nursery, and I’ll see what I may have.’


‘Will the babies be awake?’ Matt asked, brightening. He was fond of the babies, as one might be fond of a litter of puppies.
There was Arthur’s brother John; little Mary Celia Ailesbury, the orphan daughter of Martin’s sister, and always called Clover,
because she was round and sweet – she was Matt’s favourite; and Aliena, the Countess’s new baby. There was something odd about
Aliena, Matt knew – not about her person, but about her existence, for the servants whispered and broke off when Matt came
near, and Birch always shook her head over Aliena sadly, though she was a lusty child, small and dark but strong. Matt knew
better than to ask questions, just as he realized the servants knew better than to ask the Countess questions, or even to
speak above the lowest of whispers. ‘If the babies are awake, can I play with them?’ Matt pursued. Birch shook his hand in
mild reproof.


‘Play with them, indeed. They’re not toys, you know.’ And then, glancing at Matt’s face, she said, unexpectedly kindly, ‘You
can give Clover her pap, if you like. If you’re careful.’


Matt was pleased; but all the same, apprehensive, for kindness from Birch surely portended some disaster.

*

The door shut with a soft click, leaving them alone in the tumbling shadows of the fire.


‘Shall I send for candles?’ Martin said, glancing out of the window. ‘It’s quite dark outside.’

‘I can see well enough,’ Annunciata said, turning to him. When Martin had told her that terrible day that the King had fled
the country, she had known that it was the end for her, and she had wanted to die, had prayed for it. But miraculously, a
little space had been granted them. Prince William had not sent soldiers to tear down Morland Place and throw her and Martin
into the Tower; social pressures had not forced her and Martin apart; the children had not discovered the truth about Aliena.
Annunciata’s spirits had revived, and hope had sprung up in her, and with the hope, a fierce desire to live.


And now that she had had those few brief weeks of life, she did not want to relinquish it again. She had thought, when Martin
came home and rescued her from the hands of the mob, the priest-killers, that the complication of their relationship would
make it impossible for them to stay together. But now, looking at his dear face, she felt that those same complications, thicket
after thicket of difficulties, made it impossible for them to part. Her love for him welled up in her, strong and joyous,
bubbling upwards like the source of a mighty river. She clasped her hands together and pressed them against her breast-bone
as if she feared that her ribs would spring open from the pressure of that flood.


Martin looked at her, and saw her face alight and her eyes brilliant with some strange and vivid joy, and he thought, dear
God, there is no one like her! Two months ago he had seen her in despair, bowed, defeated, and he had thought that she would
die. Worse than that, he had thought that she would go away from him. But now, look! From whence came that vitality, that
spirit, he wondered? He smiled at her, and she held her hands out to him, and when he took them she laughed.


‘Karellie will go,’ she said. ‘How he longs for a battle!’

‘And Maurice?’ he asked.


‘I hope not Maurice,’ she said. ‘Karellie has it in his blood and in his heart, and he will make a fine soldier. Perhaps that
is all he will make. But Maurice – Maurice has something else in him, more important than the change of dynasties.’


‘My lady,’ Martin said in mock reproach, ‘what could be more important than the change of dynasties?’ Everything that was
alive of her was in his hands, as if the force of her energy flowed through them and into him like the strong current of a
river. ‘You will have to go abroad,’ he said.


‘What, now?’ she said. She thought he was jesting. ‘How should I desert my country now? I shall be needed here, to greet the
King when he arrives.’


‘Listen, my heart,’ he said steadily, ‘the campaign will not take days or weeks. It will take months. It will not be so very
easy to dislodge the Dutchman – he is an old campaigner, and he has good troops. And he will want to secure his rear when
he goes out to Ireland to face the attack.’


‘He has left us alone so far,’ Annunciata said.

‘But he will not, once the King lands in Ireland. You are too well-known. You will draw attention to Morland Place. My dearest,
it is not for your own safety alone I say this – God forbid that I should stop you flinging your slender life in the path
of your enemies –’


It was only half a joke. She would never forget the horror of those endless moments when she held the staircase against the
mob, while they murdered and mutilated her priest.


‘Without you, I think he will leave Morland Place alone. You must consider the family.’

‘You want me to go into exile?’ she said. The very word was a horror.

‘For a short time. Until the campaign is won, and the King restored.’

‘And you, you will stay here, I suppose?’ Her voice was hard. She could endure anything, but to be parted from him.


‘You forget,’ he said lightly, ‘I am already an exile.’ She would not take that. She turned her eyes from him in pain.

‘The King exiled you – the Usurper will pardon you. That is the way it works.’

‘Not if I fight against him.’

Her eyes came back to him, alight with laughter. ‘You? Ah, Martin, Martin!’ And she pressed herself against him. She was laughing,
but her cheek against his cheek was wet. He wound his arms round her, tightly, tightly, smelling the sweet smell of her skin,
feeling the harshness of her black hair against his neck, and her hands strong against his back, pulling him closer. This
was life, the touch of her; to be apart from her was death.


‘Everything must be done, to ensure a swift victory,’ he said, his lips to her hair. ‘I have endured one exile. A swift assured
blow, and the end to all this – that is our only hope.’


For a while they rested against each other, drawing strength, and then she freed herself gently and straightened, looking
at him levelly, like a soldier. ‘We have so little time,’ she said. ‘We must make plans.’


Clovis was to stay at Morland Place, as its guardian, and guardian of the fortunes of the children who were the future’s hope.
It was a grave burden to lay upon him, but there was no one else. The only other adults of the Morland family left now were
Martin’s sister Sabine who, recently widowed and childless, was running the three Northumberland estates, one belonging to
the family, and two of her own; and Clovis’s half-sister Cathy, married to cousin Kit Morland, who lived in Scotland where
they had an estate and one sickly son.


‘You will manage, I know,’ Annunciata said. ‘I am sorry to lay so heavy a task on you, but you are strong for it, and I hope
you will forgive me.’


‘I owe everything to you,’ Clovis said gravely. ‘And it will not be for long.’


‘You will write and let Cathy and Sabine know?’ Annunciata said. ‘It will come better from you.’

‘I dare say they will have their own troubles. There will surely be a rising in Scotland.’

‘We must all help each other,’ She bit her lip. ‘I feel I should not be running away.’

He took her hand and pressed it. ‘We have gone through all that. You know it is best.’ His hand was warm and steady, and reassured
her. He was strong with some strength that she had never traced to its source, not associating it with herself. Even Clovis
did not know what it was precisely that he felt for Annunciata: he only knew that all his life his heart had slept in her
shadow, and that though he had had many opportunities to marry, and marry well, there could be no place for any woman in his
life while he served her.


It was hard to say goodbye to Father St Maur, whose spirit was willing to go with his mistress, but whose flesh was weak.

‘The children need you,’ Annunciata said to hide her emotion. ‘To whom else could I trust their education and their souls?’

Hard to say goodbye to the servants, who had been so faithful, who had fought beside her, cared for her and been cared for
by her for so many years. Hard to say goodbye to Jane Birch, who had been with her since she had first gone to London, almost
thirty years ago, who had witnessed all the triumphs and griefs of her life. But the ague that had swept through Morland Place
in the winter had left Birch feeble, and a sea-journey in early March would have been too much for her. She accepted that
she must stay behind without comment, but when the moment came to part, her eyes, shallow with encroaching blindness, filled
with tears.


‘You are needed here,’ Annunciata said. ‘It won’t be for long.’

‘Yea, my lady,’ Birch said, holding herself rigid.


Annunciata wanted to kiss her, but she knew it would break Birch’s control, and that Birch would feel ashamed to cry in front
of the other servants. So Annunciata said, ‘Help Clovis. Look to the children. I shall come back very soon.’


‘Yes, my lady,’ Birch said, but her eyes spoke a different truth.

Hard to say goodbye to Karellie, who would be leaving the next day with Martin and some of the men for Ireland. Her tall boy,
with his easy lounging grace, Ralph’s height and colouring and features, nothing of Annunciata about him except the dark Stuart
eyes. She had taken him aside the previous night and, with great pain to herself, had told him the secret of his ancestry:
that Prince Rupert, whom Annunciata had loved, and whose mistress she had almost become, was in fact her father. Only intervention
at the last moment had prevented that terrible thing, for Annunciata’s mother had never disclosed her father’s identity. The
intervention had come in time to prevent the deed, but too late to change the love she had in her heart, which for ever afterwards
must be shut away, hidden and denied. But it was important for Karellie, on the eve of such an important campaign, to know
what blood flowed in his veins.


‘You are a Stuart, Karellie,’ she said, ‘great-great-grandson of King James the first, grandson of the greatest soldier the
world has ever known. Your grandfather fought to preserve King Charles upon his throne. Now you will fight to restore the
throne to King James, your cousin. Be worthy of the Stuart name.’


In the grey half-light before dawn they left Morland Place for Aldbrough, where a ship awaited them. Though planned hastily,
this was no fugitive flight, and Annunciata was taking with her horses and servants and money and jewels, for she did not
want to come a beggar to St Germain. She took the baby Aliena, and Maurice; Dorcas to look after the baby; Chloris, a servant-girl Nan, her footman Gifford,
a groom Daniel, and John Wood to attend Maurice.


The ground was still frost-hard, and they made good time, avoiding the deep, frozen ruts of the roads and riding over the
open fields, where the stubble had long since been eaten by the overwintering cattle. They reached the little harbour in the
early afternoon, finding the ship rocking gently at anchor between the grey sea and the grey sky, and were able to get everything
aboard by dark. Then came the last goodbye of all. Gifford retreated, without being asked, to the edge of the foam, and Martin
sent his armed escort to wait further up the beach, and that was all the privacy they could gain.


‘My lady,’ Martin said, taking her hands. Those two words alone were enough to undo her. Tomorrow he would ride off for Ireland,
there to do battle for his king.


‘Oh Martin, take care, take care,’ she said. The salty wind whipped stray fronds of her hair about her brows where they escaped
from her hood.


‘As much care as may be,’ he said. He drew her to him, and kissed her cheeks and eyes. They were damp and salty, but whether
from the sea-wind or from tears he did not know. Her skin was cold under his mouth. He sought her lips, and they were cold
too, but warmed under the touch of his. He closed his eyes.


‘Oh God, I love you,’ he whispered. ‘Only you, for ever.’

The sound of the sea, coldly chattering on stones, and the whimpering of seagulls, blown like damp rags about the sky; the
smell of salt, and broken seaweed. The tide would not wait for them. They clung together, even as they pushed themselves apart,
and their eyes still touched when they stood separate.


‘God go with you, Martin,’ she said. ‘Clovis will send me word, but write to me, if you can.’

‘I will. God bless you, my lady. Oh, God keep you.’

Gifford came to help her on board, and as soon as she was over the side, the sailors broke into frenzied action from their watchful stillness. Martin stood on the shore, huddled
into his cloak against the freshening wind, and watched as the graceful little ship shook out her sails, gathered steerage
way, and then span about and leapt eagerly towards the incoming waves. The darkness was deepening, and soon she was only a
glimmer of sails and a thicker core of darkness in the murk. Martin was not aware of the moment when she disappeared, for
he continued to stare after her into the darkness as if his mind saw with a clearer eye, following her progress over the cold,
grey-green waves. At length one of his men came down to him, had actually to tap his arm to gain his attention.


‘Best we get going, Master,’ the man said gently. ‘It’s mortal cold, and the tide’s coming in.’

Martin looked down with a start and saw the foam lipping almost to his feet.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m coming now.’

The Château of St Germain was an ugly red-brick building on a medieval foundation, but its setting was beautiful, with gardens
that ran down to the River Seine, and roof terraces that looked over the great game-forest that earlier French Kings had planted
west of Paris. The forest teemed with game; splendid trees grouped around ornamental lakes, linked by broad, mossy rides;
and beyond its curly dark poll could be seen, misty and beautiful, the roofs and spires of Paris.


Annunciata wrote to Clovis to tell of her kind reception there. The Queen in exile was warmer and more accessible than she
had been at Whitehall, and was evidently also glad that Annunciata had not arrived penniless, as did most of the exiles. She
granted Annunciata an apartment on the first staircase, which was the best, and made her a Lady of the Bedchamber, as well
as making Maurice Gentleman of the Chapel Royal. Annunciata reported that the Queen was evidently deeply shocked and miserable
at finding herself in exile, but that the King wrote cheerfully from Ireland, and the King of France and all the French royal
family were generous and attentive. The Prince of Wales was thriving, and Maurice had written an anthem to celebrate his first
birthday on 10 June, which the King of France had said was very good.


Clovis responded with frequent letters that arrived via his secret route. He could give little news of the campaign in Ireland,
other than that Martin and Karellie had arrived safely, but he gave her news of the family. Martin’s sister Sabine, unable,
so it seemed, to endure her widowhoo