Reckless Angel by Jane Feather Page B

flagon to his lips. “Aye, family troubles is bad. Was the same, as I remember, with my Uncle Job and ’is youngest. Didn’t speak two words for twenty year, though they lived but a spit apart.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the flagon to Henrietta. “Take a drink, lass. ’Tis a raw night.”
    â€œNay, I thank ye,” Henrietta said hastily. “Pray take me to the captain.”
    â€œâ€™Tis not the captain as issues passes, wench,” one of the men by the fireside told her with a salacious chuckle. “’Tis the sergeant, and ye’ll ’ave to sweet talk ’im. Mebbe for a kiss, ’e’ll be willin’ to oblige.”
    â€œI thought Cromwell’s men were not the kind to take advantage of a maid,” Henrietta said with a doleful sniff. “’Tis unkind when I’m in such distress.” She knuckled her eyes, trying to make them water convincingly. “I’ve never kissed anyone, not even my Ned, ’n we’re to be wed when I’ve got me bottom drawer together.”
    Peeping at them through her fingers, she saw that she had struck the right note. These rough country men had their own rules, and a girl of their own kind, affianced and virtuous, would not meet with lewd treatment.
    â€œCease yer weepin’, wench,” Dick said gruffly. “No one means ye any ’arm. ’Tis just a bit ’o fun. But ye should not be paradin’ in them britches. ’Tain’t decent.”
    â€œNay, I am aware,” she said with another sniff. “’N Ned would ’ave summat to say if ’e knew. But what’s a maid to do with no man to protect ’er? ’Tis terrible times we live in.”
    â€œAye, that it is.” One of the fireside sitters stood up, fastening his tunic. “Come with me, lass. I’ll take ye to the sergeant. I’ve a maid not much bigger ’n ye at ’ome.”
    Thankfully, Henrietta followed the soldier out of the round chamber along a stone-walled corridor to a heavy, ironbound wooden door. The trooper knocked. A growl bade them enter and Henrietta’s escort pushed her ahead of him into another fire-warmed chamber.
    A bullet-headed man in an immaculate tunic sat at a big table. “Well,” he demanded. “What’s this then, Trooper Bates?”
    Trooper Bates, standing rigidly to attention, explained the situation.
    The sergeant listened impassively, his eyes fixed on the girl, who had little difficulty in looking petrified, since that was exactly how she felt. Henrietta knew only too well what happened to those suspected of treason who might have information to impart. Torture was used indiscriminately, and her sex would not protect her from the hideous fate of those who were broken in the dungeons of Nottingham Castle—broken only to meet the hangman. She shivered despite the sweat that misted her palms and gathered on her upper lip.
    â€œWhere does your father dwell, girl?” the sergeant asked when the trooper fell silent.
    Henrietta had her answer prepared. “In Spittal Fields, sir, if you please.”
    â€œHis name?”
    â€œBolt, if you please, sir.”
    â€œI’m not sure that I do,” the sergeant said irascibly.“Stop shaking, girl, no one’s going to harm ye. Cromwell’s New Model army doesn’t wage war on women and children.”
    â€œNo, sir,” Henrietta murmured, shaking now with relief. “But ’tis just that I’m desperate, sir. I don’t want me father to rest in a pauper’s grave. They say they don’t even wrap ’em afore they throws ’em in—” Great sobs burst from her lips, preventing further speech, and she buried her face in her hands.
    â€œOdd’s bones,” muttered the sergeant, reaching for paper and quill. “Can’t abide weeping women. It’ll cost ye a crown,