Kingslayer's Daughter
Anna Markland
KINGSLAYER’S DAUGHTER
By
ANNA MARKLAND
©Copyright Anna Markland 2019
“There are no secrets that time does not reveal.”
~Jean Racine
Contents
Also by Anna Markland
Foreword
A Thoughtless King
A Traitor's Legacy
Gloucester
Glass
Worcester
Headmaster
Goodbye
A Long Night
Words To Live By
Apprentice
Meat Pies
New Cape
Lovely Afternoon
Influence
Remedy
Services Rendered
Tell Him
He Loves Thee
Poison
In Pursuit Of The Truth
Snuff
Alleluia
Wit And Wisdom
Giving Thanks
Come To Bed
Are Ye Certain?
No Laughing Matter
Mixed Emotions
Dining At The Swan
Goodbye
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
Sunday
Monday Morning
Tuesday
Kindness
Bossy
Another Good Idea
Fair Game
Butterflies
On A Wink And A Prayer
Banquet
All In Good Time
Every Inch
Our Bairns
Epilogue
Historical Footnotes
About Anna
Kingslayer’s Daughter by Anna Markland
Book Two, The House of Pendray © 2019 Anna Markland
www.annamarkland.com
All rights reserved. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
For permissions contact: anna@annamarkland.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover by Dar Albert
Also by Anna Markland
The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition (2018-2019)
I Conquest—Ram & Mabelle, Rhodri & Rhonwen
II Defiance—Hugh & Devona, Antoine & Sybilla
III Redemption—Caedmon & Agneta
IV Vengeance—Ronan & Rhoni
V Birthright—Adam & Rosamunda, Denis & Paulina
VI Star-Crossed— Robert & Dorianne, Baudoin & Carys
VII Allegiance—Rhys & Annalise
VIII Crescendo—Izzy & Farah
IX Infidelity—Gallien & Peridotte
The Montbryce Legacy First Edition (2011-2014)
Carried Away—Blythe & Dieter
Sweet Taste of Love—Aidan & Nolana
Wild Viking Princess—Ragna & Reider
Fatal Truths—Alex & Elayne
Sinful Passions—Bronson & Grace; Rodrick & Swan
Series featuring the stories of the Viking ancestors of my Norman families
The Rover Bold—Bryk & Cathryn
The Rover Defiant—Torstein & Sonja
The Rover Betrayed—Magnus & Judith
Novellas
Maknab’s Revenge—Ingram & Ruby
Passion’s Fire—Matthew & Brigandine
Banished—Sigmar & Audra
Hungry Like De Wolfe—Blaise & Anne
Unkissable Knight—Dervenn & Victorine
The Marauder—Santiago & Valentina
Caledonia Chronicles (Scotland)
Book I Pride of the Clan—Rheade & Margaret
Book II Highland Tides—Braden & Charlotte
Book III Highland Dawn—Keith & Aurora
Book IV Roses Among the Heather—Blair & Susanna, Craig & Timothea
The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty (medieval Europe)
Book 1 Loyal Heart—Sophia & Brandt
Book 2 Courageous Heart—Luther & Francesca
Book 3 Faithful Heart—Kon & Zara
Myth & Mystery
The Taking of Ireland —Sibràn & Aislinn
Clash of the Tartans
Kilty Secrets—Ewan & Shona
Kilted at the Altar—Darroch & Isabel
Kilty Pleasures—Broderick & Kyla
The House of Pendray
Highland Betrayal—Morgan & Hannah (audiobook available)
Kingslayer’s Daughter—Munro & Sarah
Highland Jewel—Garnet & Jewel
Foreword
In 1649, after his defeat by Oliver Cromwell’s Roundhead army in the English Civil War, King Charles I was charged with high treason. He refused to enter a plea, alleging the Parliamentary court had no basis in law.
After hearing the evidence, the judges declared the king guilty and sentenced him to execution by beheading.
On January 30th 1649, a death warrant was issued to which fifty-nine men appended their signatures, then pressed their seals into melted wax.
As one might expect, Oliver Cromwell was the first to sign.
A lesser-known figure among the fifty-nine was Henry Marten, a lawyer born in Oxfordshire and a staunch proponent of republicanism.
It was reported that during the signing of the death warrant, Cromwell and Marten were in such high spirits they flicked ink at one another from their pens, like naughty schoolboys.
By the time the executed king’s son, Charles II was restored to the throne many years later, Cromwell had died. Most of the fifty-nine signatories who were still alive were sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered.
Marten was a notable exception. He was given life in prison.
Though he was a Puritan, Marten had a reputation as a glutton and a libertine. He was estranged from his wife and spent most of his married life with his mistress, Mary Ward, who bore him three daughters. She was allowed to live with him during the last twelve years of his relatively comfortable imprisonment in Chepstow Castle. To this day, the tower where he was incarcerated is known as Marten’s Tower.
There is no record of what became of his three illegitimate girls—until now!
A Thoughtless King
Palace of Whitehall, London, 1680
A liveried and bewigged footman interrupted Hannah Pendray’s audience with the king.
Seated on an ornately carved throne, Charles leaned over slightly, tweaking his mustache as the messenger whispered in his ear. “The regicide choked on his dinner, you say,” he remarked without humor. “A fitting end for a gluttonous whoremonger.”
A murmur of amused agreement eventually trickled through the assembled courtiers as word was passed that Henry Marten had died. The king patted the heads of both spaniels lying at his feet, then crossed one elegant leg over the other.
Munro Pendray bristled, embarrassed for his mother as fawning men and women sought the king’s attention. “A traitor’s death is hardly a suitable topic a
t a gathering to celebrate the long-awaited confirmation of your earldom,” he complained to his frowning father.
Morgan Pendray shrugged. “It has taken His Majesty nigh on twenty years to acknowledge your mother’s role in saving the Scottish Crown Jewels from Cromwell,” he replied. “Charles seems not to have much sense of occasion.”
“He would still be ignorant of her bravery had you not mentioned it,” Munro added, aware his Welsh-born father had little patience for English kings, though he’d played a vital part in helping to restore the monarchy after Cromwell’s death. He, too, had waited years for any expression of royal gratitude.
Morgan chuckled. “His Majesty’s first reaction was to remark I don’t sound like a Scot though I live in Scotland.”
Munro appreciated the irony. His father often repeated the tale. During the rebellion against Cromwell, every Scot who heard his Welsh twang invariably remarked on it.
Morgan shook his head. “Our illustrious monarch is still reluctant to believe a woman carried out the daring endeavor. He apparently thought a minister had done the deed.”
“Reverend Grainger from Kinneff,” Munro replied.
“Aye, too bad the man is long dead. I doubt he and his wife ever got any thanks for the risk they took burying the regalia under the floor of their church.”
“At least you named my younger brother Grainger after the pair,” Munro offered. He sensed his father’s growing irritation as his wife fidgeted with the lace cuffs of her gown, uncharacteristically unsure what to do in the presence of a thoughtless king.
“She’s going to be livid,” his sister said.
Munro agreed with Jewel. “His Majesty has clearly forgotten he was speaking with her. More interested in his confounded dogs.”
Grainger joined the conversation. “How can it be that the life of one of the regicides is just now coming to an end? I thought all the signatories to Charles I’s death warrant were hanged, drawn and quartered twenty years ago.”
“Not Colonel Henry Marten,” their father replied to his youngest son’s question. “He was sentenced to life imprisonment. It was rumored he’d shielded certain prominent Royalists during Cromwell’s reign, a fact he alluded to during his trial. It saved him from a more gruesome punishment.”
“Pretty strong words, though, especially with women present,” Munro observed. “A glutton and whoremonger?”
“Marten was a Puritan but he enjoyed life to excess,” his father explained. “He once spent time in Debtors’ Prison, and he lived openly with a woman who wasn’t his wife. She bore him three daughters. In fact, she has shared his apartments for the last several years of his imprisonment.”
“What?” the siblings exclaimed in unison, drawing censorious glares.
Seemingly at the end of his patience, Morgan Pendray, the newly-confirmed Earl of Glenheath, strode off to rescue his wife.
“Apparently, we’re to receive no further explanation,” Jewel muttered. “I wonder what became of the three daughters?”
A Traitor's Legacy
Birmingham, England, September 1680
As soon as Sarah recognized the man tapping on the small glass pane in the door of her apothecary shop, she knew the Reverend Henry Grove had come bearing bad news. He was aware the shop was closed, having presided over her husband’s funeral just two weeks prior. The Guild would not give permission for the business to reopen until she took on an apprentice.
With Reginald dead and gone, Henry Grove was the only man in Birmingham who knew the secret of Sarah’s parentage. He’d required the information in order to perform the marriage ceremony that had bound her to a man twenty years her senior.
“Herbal tea?” she asked after unlocking the door.
He nodded. “Something calming. You’ll need it.”
She turned the key in the lock and led the way upstairs to the room where she’d lived with Reginald North for five long years. “The kettle’s on the hob,” she said.
A few minutes later, she removed her linen apron, smoothed down her grey wool skirts, straightened her waistcoat and took a seat across from him at the scarred wooden table. The clergyman sipped his steaming camomile tea. She feared her trembling hands might drop the chipped cup, so she let it sit. “I’ll wait for it to cool,” she murmured. “Is it about my father?”
She couldn’t think of any other reason for his presence. The Norths weren’t part of the flock of St. Martin’s, though the church was a scant two-minute walk from the shop. She’d never completely understood why she’d asked Grove to keep in touch with the monks at St. Mary’s Priory in Chepstow.
“Marten’s dead, child,” he replied. “His torment is over.”
She supposed torment was as good a word as any for a sentence of life imprisonment. A vague sense of relieved sadness settled in her heart.
“I didn’t know him,” she said in an effort to explain her lack of outward emotion. “I was born in Oxford three years before my father was sent to the Tower to await trial. Five months after that, he was sentenced to exile on Holy Island; Northumbria was too far away for my mother to travel with an infant and her two siblings.”
Grove sipped his tea, showing no sign of impatience that she was repeating things he likely already knew.
“Henry Marten never set eyes on me again until five years later when he was moved to a cell in Windsor Castle. It was closer to Oxford and my mother bribed a guard to allow a short visit—of which I have no memory.
“Three years later, King Charles II decided Windsor was too close to his own living quarters for comfort. My father was moved to Chepstow Castle.”
“And your mother went to live with him in his apartments there.”
She smiled at the cleric. “You’re an unusual priest. You’ve never once uttered a word of condemnation about my parents’ adulterous relationship.”
Grove shrugged. “Let he who is without sin…When you look back, don’t you admire their commitment to each other, despite the difficulties they faced?”
Sarah scoffed. “My father was unhappily wed to someone else. An adulterer as well as a traitor. But their commitment, as you call it, is the only way to explain why my mother abandoned us when she moved to Chepstow.”
“Well, she had no income, and three little girls to provide for. Perhaps she thought she was doing the right thing, leaving you in the care of Mrs. Flamsteed.”
Sarah nestled her hands around the warm cup and stared at the bits of camomile floating in the tea, remembering. “Peggy and Henrietta were placed in service to two noble households. I was young enough to be sent to the Blue Coat School in Greenwich.”
“Ah, yes. A marvelous endeavor founded by Mrs. Flamsteed for girls whose families had fallen on hard times,” Grove enthused. “If only there were more kind-hearted souls in the world like her.”
“I suppose a life sentence for treason qualified as hard times,” Sarah retorted.
“Now, now,” he chided. “At school you learned about God and were encouraged to have a great horror of vice and a great love of virtue.”
“The irony of that strikes me now I’m an adult,” she confessed. “Though I didn’t know the full gravity of my parents’ sins at the time.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, until Grove finished his tea. “You haven’t asked about your mother.”
A chill crept up Sarah’s nape. “No.”
“The monks report she has nowhere to live. She’s destitute.”
Sarah almost laughed at the irony. Freed at last from her husband’s brutality, surely she wouldn’t be expected to provide for a woman who’d abandoned her. “As you see, I don’t really have anywhere…”
“It’s your duty, Sarah,” he replied. “The Priory will allow her to stay for a short while, until you can fetch her.”
Indignation stiffened her spine. “I can’t go off to Wales. I have to find an apprentice and get the shop re-opened. People need medicinals.”
Grove reached across and patted her hand. “Nev
ertheless. The coach for Gloucester leaves from The Swan on the morrow.”
Sarah seethed with resentment throughout the long, bone-jarring and sometimes nerve-racking stagecoach ride from Birmingham to Gloucester, and thence to Chepstow. She felt no personal guilt for her father’s crime, but resolved never again to divulge anything of her past to anyone. If she hadn’t asked Grove…
In an effort to soothe her ruffled feathers, she closed her eyes and thought on the years at Blue Coat—happy days of learning that seemed a lifetime ago. She preferred to forget most of what had happened in the years since.
Exhaustion had taken hold by the time she arrived at St. Mary’s Priory in Chepstow.
An old woman swathed in a drab grey frock and threadbare shawl rose stiffly from a rear pew and came to greet her, clutching the strap of a small leather satchel slung across her body. It took a moment for Sarah to recognize the wrinkled face beneath the frayed brim of the bonnet.
“Daughter,” Mary Ward said hoarsely, one gnarled hand gripping the back of the pew. She eyed Sarah’s red woollen dress with obvious disapproval.