came; he would know what it was.
So with her mind thus preoccupied, Marcelle did Abe’s chores for him while he sat snoring by the fire. Then she bathed and put on a cool white nightgown and crept quietly with lighted candle through the house to her room at the top of the stairs. Inside she knelt beside her lavender-scented bed to say the simple prayer she had learned as a child. As she slipped between the sheets, she heard a movement upstairs above her, a soft rustling sound and she knew it was Merlin. He never slept, but just shuffled about all night in his attic above her head. Marcelle sank down under the covers desperately trying to ward off the fear that Merlin’s noise instilled in her.
The house was now silent. Only the hoot of an owl in the woods woke up the night as its black curtain descended on the land. Just over the hill, a few miles from Annabelle’s house, the remains of the Royal procession set up camp in a haphazard fashion. No one was sure of what was going on or in which direction to proceed.
Young Lord Hay, the officer in charge, decided to wait until the morning for news. Just before dusk another troop of men arrived and with them his Royal Highness Prince Henry and David Murray, the Prince’s aid and devoted servant. Immediately there was a noisy scene inside the hastily erected tent, as the huge Scotsman David Murray bellowed with rage, his red beard bristling. ‘What tomfoolery is this?’ he shouted at a worried-looking young officer.
The Prince was looking tired and weary and was crouching over a charcoal burner which warmed the tent.
‘Gad, sir,’ retorted the harassed Lord Hay. ‘I, myself, do not relish the night on this draughty looking hill but we have been left high and dry, with no one knowing in which direction His Majesty went.’
David seemed concerned as he looked at the Prince’s ashen face and sandy hair which seemed to increase the paleness of his skin.
‘The laddie isna too weel. He should ne’er ha’ come,’ he relapsed into his broad dialect as he did in times of stress.
In a lower voice Lord Hay asked: ‘Shall I send a messenger to Newly to say you will spend the night there?’
‘It’s ten miles away!’ roared the angry Scotsman. ‘His Royal Highness has had enough riding for one day.’
‘There’s a yeoman’s house in the valley. It’s clean and respectable and would certainly be better than this windy hill,’ suggested Lord Hay.
David went slowly to his charge and spoke softly in the boy’s ear. The only response he got from the young prince was a nod of the head. The boy seemed exhausted. Fetching a plain heavy riding cloak, David placed it gently on the young prince’s shoulders and helped him to remount his horse. Then the three men rode off into the night, down the valley towards Annabelle’s house.
Lord Hay was the young lord who had leapt the fence and had kissed Ruth earlier on in the day, so he knew exactly where to find the house tucked away in the trees.
The sound of heavy knocking on the door woke Abe as he slept before the fire. But the noise echoed through the still house and both Annabelle and Marcelle woke with a fright, for there was always an element of danger in any knocking at the dead of night.
A bleary-eyed Abe went to the door and two men pushed past him, escorting a third who was muffled in a big riding cloak.
‘We crave your hospitality for the night.’ The red-bearded man towered over Abe and spoke haughtily to him. ‘You will be well paid. Our friend is fatigued with riding. We need hot food and clean beds.’
‘Come inside, and you are welcome,’ old Abe said, opening the door wide. His keen eye caught a glimpse of the auburn hair and the deathly pale face of the young prince. ‘Go to the fire. I will soon rouse the house, and your wants will be attended to,’ he said.
Soon the candles were alight and a huge fire was roaring in the guest chamber on the first floor. Annabelle was now up, and her lace gown
So with her mind thus preoccupied, Marcelle did Abe’s chores for him while he sat snoring by the fire. Then she bathed and put on a cool white nightgown and crept quietly with lighted candle through the house to her room at the top of the stairs. Inside she knelt beside her lavender-scented bed to say the simple prayer she had learned as a child. As she slipped between the sheets, she heard a movement upstairs above her, a soft rustling sound and she knew it was Merlin. He never slept, but just shuffled about all night in his attic above her head. Marcelle sank down under the covers desperately trying to ward off the fear that Merlin’s noise instilled in her.
The house was now silent. Only the hoot of an owl in the woods woke up the night as its black curtain descended on the land. Just over the hill, a few miles from Annabelle’s house, the remains of the Royal procession set up camp in a haphazard fashion. No one was sure of what was going on or in which direction to proceed.
Young Lord Hay, the officer in charge, decided to wait until the morning for news. Just before dusk another troop of men arrived and with them his Royal Highness Prince Henry and David Murray, the Prince’s aid and devoted servant. Immediately there was a noisy scene inside the hastily erected tent, as the huge Scotsman David Murray bellowed with rage, his red beard bristling. ‘What tomfoolery is this?’ he shouted at a worried-looking young officer.
The Prince was looking tired and weary and was crouching over a charcoal burner which warmed the tent.
‘Gad, sir,’ retorted the harassed Lord Hay. ‘I, myself, do not relish the night on this draughty looking hill but we have been left high and dry, with no one knowing in which direction His Majesty went.’
David seemed concerned as he looked at the Prince’s ashen face and sandy hair which seemed to increase the paleness of his skin.
‘The laddie isna too weel. He should ne’er ha’ come,’ he relapsed into his broad dialect as he did in times of stress.
In a lower voice Lord Hay asked: ‘Shall I send a messenger to Newly to say you will spend the night there?’
‘It’s ten miles away!’ roared the angry Scotsman. ‘His Royal Highness has had enough riding for one day.’
‘There’s a yeoman’s house in the valley. It’s clean and respectable and would certainly be better than this windy hill,’ suggested Lord Hay.
David went slowly to his charge and spoke softly in the boy’s ear. The only response he got from the young prince was a nod of the head. The boy seemed exhausted. Fetching a plain heavy riding cloak, David placed it gently on the young prince’s shoulders and helped him to remount his horse. Then the three men rode off into the night, down the valley towards Annabelle’s house.
Lord Hay was the young lord who had leapt the fence and had kissed Ruth earlier on in the day, so he knew exactly where to find the house tucked away in the trees.
The sound of heavy knocking on the door woke Abe as he slept before the fire. But the noise echoed through the still house and both Annabelle and Marcelle woke with a fright, for there was always an element of danger in any knocking at the dead of night.
A bleary-eyed Abe went to the door and two men pushed past him, escorting a third who was muffled in a big riding cloak.
‘We crave your hospitality for the night.’ The red-bearded man towered over Abe and spoke haughtily to him. ‘You will be well paid. Our friend is fatigued with riding. We need hot food and clean beds.’
‘Come inside, and you are welcome,’ old Abe said, opening the door wide. His keen eye caught a glimpse of the auburn hair and the deathly pale face of the young prince. ‘Go to the fire. I will soon rouse the house, and your wants will be attended to,’ he said.
Soon the candles were alight and a huge fire was roaring in the guest chamber on the first floor. Annabelle was now up, and her lace gown
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