William eyed him. A townsman by the look of him, a small trader or craftsman, perhaps. Didn’t sound local. William Furzey wasn’t stupid; he knew an opportunity when he saw it. The fish could wait. ‘’T’ain’t easy to find,’ he said. The house was, in fact, less than a mile off by a straight lane. The stranger looked tired. ‘I could take you there,’ William offered, ‘but it’d be out of my way.’
‘Would sixpence repay your kindness?’ A day labourer’s wage was eight pence. Sixpence from an ordinary townsman like this, therefore, was handsome. He must want to find the place badly. Furzey nodded.
He took a circuitous route. Moyles Court lay in a clearing just below the ridge that led up from the Avon valley to the heathland of the Forest. This part of the valley was quite wooded, so it wasn’t difficult for Furzey to stretch the journey to two miles, taking paths that sometimes doubled back on themselves. Since the stranger made no remark, Furzey concluded that his sense of direction wasn’t strong. It also gave him the chance to find out more about him. Had he come from far? The man was evasive. What was his occupation?
‘I am a baker,’ his companion admitted.
A baker, from a long way off, prepared to pay sixpence to find Moyles Court. This man was almost certainly a dissenter, then, looking for that damned Lisle woman. Furzey bided his time before speaking. ‘You seek a godly lady,’ he ventured in a pious voice, at the next wrong turn he made.
‘You think so?’
‘I do. If it is Dame Alice you seek.’
‘Ah.’ The baker looked pleased. His watery blue eyes brightened hopefully.
Furzey wasn’t quite sure where this conversation would lead, but one thing was certain: the more he could learn from this man, the more chance he had of using it for profit. And the beginning of an idea was starting to form in his mind. ‘There are many good folk she has helped,’ Furzey continued. He thought of the hated Prides and mentioned the names of some of their Lymington relations. ‘But I must be careful what I say,’ he added, ‘not knowing who you may be.’
And now the poor fool smiled gladly. ‘You may know me, friend,’ he cried. ‘My name is Dunne and I come all the way from Warminster. I have a message to deliver to Dame Alice.’
Warminster: west of Sarum by twenty miles. A long way for a dissenting baker to be carrying a message. His first suspicions began to grow. This fellow might be useful indeed.
‘By what name may I know you?’ the baker asked eagerly.
Furzey hesitated. He hadn’t the least intention of giving his name to this probably dangerous friend of the cursed Lisle woman. ‘Thomas, Sir. Just Thomas,’ he replied, adding cautiously: ‘These are difficult times for godly men.’
‘They are, Thomas. I know it.’ The baker’s watery blue eyes gave him a look of tender understanding.
Furzey led him on another hundred yards before quietly remarking: ‘If a man needed shelter, in these dangerous times, this’d be a good place, I should say.’
Yes. There was no doubt of it, the baker was looking at him gratefully. ‘You think so?’
‘I do. Praise God,’ Furzey added devoutly. He had run out of detours now, but he knew all he needed to. ‘Moyles Court lies just up there.’ He pointed. It was less than a quarter-mile. ‘Your business and that of Dame Alice is your own, Sir, so I’ll leave you here. But may I ask if you will be remaining there or returning?’
‘Returning forthwith, good Thomas.’
‘Then, if you need a guide to conduct you on your way so that you will not be seen, I’ll wait for you, if you please.’ With gratitude the baker thanked him and went upon his way.
William Furzey sat on a tree stump. There was no doubt in his mind now as to what this must mean. The baker was helping fugitives. Why else should he come and go again like this? He wanted to bring them to Dame Alice. He smiled to himself. He might have missed Monmouth himself – and several people who had helped find Monmouth had been handsomely rewarded – but if the baker’s friends were of any importance then there’d surely be something in it for him. The question was, how and where to find them? He couldn’t very well accompany this baker all the way home. But if the men were to be brought to Moyles Court … A grin spread over his face. That would bode ill, now, for that cursed Dame Alice, wouldn’t it?
An hour passed before Dunne the baker returned. One look at his face was enough. He was smiling contentedly.
‘You saw Dame Alice?’ Furzey enquired.
‘I did, my friend. And I told her of your kindness. She was curious as to who you were, but I said you were a quiet fellow who minded his own business and wished to know nothing of ours.’
‘You did right by me, Sir.’
They said no more for a while, but after about a mile the baker asked: ‘If I come again, with my friends, would you take us by a discreet way to Moyles Court?’
‘With all my heart,’ Furzey replied.
They parted near Fordingbridge.
‘Meet me here, then, in three days’ time, at dusk,’ the trusting baker said as they parted. ‘May I count upon you, Thomas?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said William, ‘you may count on me.’
Alice Lisle stared at the table, then at the letter again.
She and Betty had only arrived back at Moyles Court themselves an hour before Dunne called, so she had been rather preoccupied when he gave it to her. Perhaps, she now considered, she hadn’t paid the matter enough attention.
It was very brief. It came from a highly respectable Presbyterian minister named Hicks, whom she knew slightly. She thought she remembered him staying at Albion House once, years ago. Hicks asked if she would allow him and a friend to come for a night on his way eastwards.
It was a simple request and normally she would hardly have given it much thought. When she’d asked Dunne what this meant he had said only that he was a messenger but that Hicks seemed a most respectable man. So she had agreed that they might come there on Tuesday, which was in three days’ time, and let Dunne go. She had wondered who this man Thomas might be, who had shown Dunne the way, but there were probably many people in the area who had friends in the Lymington community. The man was obviously a well-wisher.
Yet as the evening wore on she began to have second thoughts. Had she been careless? Dunne had come a long way. What if these men were fugitives? Dunne had said nothing about that, but then he probably wanted to accomplish his mission, possibly even get them off his own hands. As for this man Thomas – could he really be trusted? The more she thought of it the less she liked it and the more she was cross with herself. A moment of weakness, a failure to keep watch, a slowing down, a weariness. Every creature in the Forest knew better than that.
She felt a sudden fear, a burst of urgency. She must put them off. She could send a messenger after Dunne in the morning. Assuming, of course, that he had returned to Warminster and not somewhere else. It was worth a try. She sighed. She’d sleep on it.
Yet every creature in the Forest, sooner or later, will be guilty of carelessness, for which the penalty can be high. In the morning, in the quiet shade of Moyles Court, she told herself that she was worrying unduly.
William Furzey didn’t waste any time. As soon as he had parted from Dunne he had continued northwards. It was a four-mile walk up to Hale, but he wasn’t taking any chances. If, by ill luck, the baker should be caught and questioned, Furzey couldn’t run any risk of being accused as an accomplice. Penruddock of Hale, therefore, was his first objective.
It was twilight when he arrived. The magistrate, about to go to bed after a busy day, was not best pleased to see the man who looked like a turnip, but as soon as Furzey began his tale he was all attention. By the time William had finished he was looking approving. ‘Fugitives. I haven’t a doubt of it,’ he said briskly. ‘You did well to come here.’
‘I’m hoping not to be the poorer for it, Sir,’ William Furzey said frankly. He’d considered bargaining at the start but wisely concluded this might irritate the magistrate.
 
; ‘Certainly.’ The other nodded. ‘It’ll depend on who they are, of course. But I’ll see you’re not the loser if we take them. You have my word.’ He gave Furzey a quick look. ‘They’ll probably think you could be useful, you know, at any trial.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Furzey understood. ‘Whatever is wanted.’
‘Hm.’ The magistrate didn’t particularly care for this kind of business himself, but it was as well to know where one stood. ‘You say’, he resumed, ‘you’re to conduct them to Moyles Court on Tuesday night and that Dame Alice will shelter them?’
‘That’s what he told me, Sir.’
Penruddock the magistrate considered silently for a few moments. Alice Lisle, he thought grimly to himself. How the wheel turned. ‘Tell no one. Not a soul. Meet them exactly as planned. Have you a horse?’
‘I can get one.’
‘Ride straight to me as soon as they are at Moyles Court. Can you do that?’
Furzey nodded.
‘Good. You can sleep in the barn here tonight, if you wish,’ Penruddock offered kindly.
That night, before he went to bed, the magistrate wrote a message to be taken to his cousin, Colonel Thomas Penruddock of Compton Chamberlayne, at dawn the next day.
George Furzey looked at William Furzey and shook his head in wonder. ‘You dog,’ he breathed. ‘You clever dog. Tell me again.’ So William repeated everything.
The magistrate had instructed him to tell no one, but William didn’t count his brother, so as soon as he was able on Sunday, he had quit the farm and crossed the Forest to Oakley, to share the news. The joy it brought George Furzey was everything William could have wished for him.
George was not a man of deep imagination. He did not concern himself in detail with what might befall Alice Lisle. All he knew was that the woman who had cheated and humiliated his family was going to get her come-uppance. That thought was so large, and so beautiful, that all others were extinguished before it like stars before the rising sun.
‘She’ll be arrested, I reckon,’ said William.
The thought of Dame Alice being hauled off to the magistrate, humiliated in front of the whole Forest, seemed to William to be God’s perfect justice: a fitting tribute to his father’s memory. And then, as he considered the sweetness of it, another idea came into his mind like a flash of morning sunlight. ‘Know what?’ he said. ‘We could send Jim Pride along there too. If they found him at Moyles Court he’d have some explaining to do, wouldn’t he?’ He let out a chuckle. ‘We could do that, I reckon, William. We could do that, then!’
‘How’d you do it, George?’ his brother asked.
‘Don’t you worry about that.’ George was in a transport of delight. The Lisles and the Prides. All humiliated. All in one go. ‘That’s easy, that is. Don’t you worry.’
Moyles Court was bigger than Albion House. It had a number of large brick chimneys rising from its various parts and a large open courtyard. It was set in a clearing, with trees all around, although there were two small paddocks on the slope up to the Forest opposite. The manor’s main fields lay on the Avon valley floor, not far away.
Betty was standing in the courtyard when the letter from Peter Albion was brought on Monday morning. The messenger who delivered it had already gone to Albion House and been sent on there.
It was brief. Peter’s business in Kent had been cut short and he had returned to London only the day after they had left. He had been shocked to find them gone, because he had an important matter to discuss with her. He was following in person and expected to arrive at Albion House on Tuesday afternoon.
As she read, Betty felt her heart quicken. She had no doubt what this must mean. In her mind there was only one question, therefore: should she tell her mother before she went to Albion House, or not? She realized that the servants at Albion House would surely send him on to Moyles Court anyway. He’d be there by Tuesday evening. And whatever her feelings, Dame Alice could hardly send him away. She was receiving other visitors that evening, wasn’t she? But all the same, the thought of going to meet him was attractive.
George Furzey waited until Tuesday morning before going over to Jim Pride’s. He found the underkeeper leaving his lodge.
Jim wasn’t particularly pleased to see him, but he was civil enough, as George delivered his message: ‘Dame Alice wants to see you at Moyles Court.’
‘Moyles Court?’ Pride frowned. ‘I can’t get over there till evening. I’ve got things to do.’
‘She don’t want you there till evening. She said she’s out till dusk anyway but wants you to come by after that. She said sorry to ask you to come so late but it’s urgent.’ He felt pretty pleased with this.
‘What does she want me for?’ the puzzled underkeeper asked.
‘I don’t know, do I?’
‘How come it’s you bringing me this message?’ Pride demanded with a trace of irritation.
‘How come it’s me? ’Cause I was going by Albion House, that’s why. And the groom said he had to go on with a message, but he was late, so I said I’d take it for him. That’s why. I’m just being helpful, aren’t I? There something wrong with that?’
No. No, Pride allowed, there was nothing wrong with that.
‘You be sure to go, mind. I don’t want to get blamed if you don’t show up.’
‘I’ll go,’ Pride promised.
‘All right then,’ said Furzey. ‘I’m off.’
The early evening was warm as William Furzey rode out of Ringwood, where he had borrowed a horse from a blacksmith he knew. There were two hours to go before dusk, so he took his time.
The River Avon between Ringwood and Fordingbridge is particularly lovely. Often, towards evening, when the fishermen come out, there is a magical mist that drifts across its watery meadows, as if the silence itself had coalesced into a damp but tangible form. The first hint of such a mist was just beginning to arise on the water as Furzey rode northwards through the dappled shadows cast, like fishermen’s lines, across the lane.
Would they come? He certainly hoped so. He wondered how much the authorities would think they were worth. Five pounds, perhaps? Ten? What if they were captured on the way, though? Possible, but it seemed to him unlikely. He guessed the authorities would rather take them together with Dame Alice, whom they could not possibly like, at Moyles Court.
He rode along cheerfully, therefore.
Stephen Pride had been feeling his age a bit that day, but he kept himself cheerful. A few aches and pains were to be expected. A walk usually eased the stiffness in his leg. It was because of the pain there, although he didn’t care to admit it, that he had set off in the afternoon to call upon his son.
Jim Pride had been out when his father arrived, but his wife and children had been there and Stephen had spent a pleasant hour playing with his grandchildren. The youngest, a four-year-old boy, had insisted on making his grandfather try to catch him, which had left old Stephen a little more tired than he wanted the child to see. He was grateful when his kindly daughter-in-law took pity on him and called the children indoors for a while so that he could sit in the shade of a tree and take a nap.
Jim returned just after he awoke and told him about the message from Dame Alice. Stephen had no more idea than his son what this might be about, but agreed that if Dame Alice wanted him, he should certainly go.
At their insistence, he remained with Jim and his wife until early evening.
The lengthening shadows were providing a pleasant coolness under the blue August sky by the time Stephen Pride made his way slowly along the edge of Beaulieu Heath towards Oakley; and he had just passed the path that led across to Boldre church when he caught sight of a figure a little way ahead. It was a lone, mounted woman, quite motionless, gazing out across the heath, apparently unaware of his approach. Only as he drew close, and she turned to look at him, did he realize it was Betty Lisle.
She greeted him affectionately. ‘I’m waiting for my cousin Peter Albion,’ she explained.
She ha
d been at Albion House since early afternoon. Rather than risk a confrontation, she had finally decided to tell her mother she was going for a ride in this direction; that way she could meet Peter without interference and return with him to Moyles Court in the evening.
Her mother had raised no objection to her ride and she had arrived at Albion House in good time; but there had been no sign of Peter. All afternoon she had waited at the house but at last, unable to bear it any longer, she had told the servants to keep her cousin there if he turned up from the Lyndhurst road and had gone out to the edge of the heath to watch, in case he decided to cut across that way. She was glad to see Stephen; at least she could talk to him and take her mind off her vigil.
Stephen was interested to hear about this cousin. He knew the Albions well enough to understand at once who Peter was. He told Betty that he could even remember seeing the young man’s grandfather, Francis, once when he had been a boy.
‘I meant to return with him to Moyles Court this evening,’ she told him. ‘If he doesn’t come soon, I don’t know what I should do. Go back without him, I suppose.’
Pride told her next about the message Dame Alice had sent to Jim.
This puzzled her. ‘As my mother knew I was coming this way, I’d have thought she’d have asked me to carry the message,’ she remarked. ‘I didn’t see any groom go off. Still,’ she added, ‘I suppose it’s something to do with the men who are coming to the house this evening.’ And she told Pride briefly of the stranger who’d been brought to Moyles Court three days before.
Soon after this, Pride went upon his way.
William Furzey waited quietly. The shadows cast by the departing sun had merged into a general orange glow and then into brownness. The mist was spreading in ghostly patches all over the meadows. The Avon valley had entered a slow summer gloaming as the first stars appeared over the Forest in a pale turquoise sky.