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Prologue
The moon was rising.
Earlier in the day, and throughout much of the previous one, it had been raining. Now, the last clouds filed swiftly out to sea, riding above trees still bare of leaves and allowing the moon to turn the steeples, rooftops and cobblestoned streets of Boston to silver. In the harbor, the bows of the great warships swung slowly around as the spring tide began to come in. In timber-framed houses all across the town, lamps glowed at doors, faint candlelight shone from behind windows, chimneys spewed wood smoke toward the stars. All was peaceful. All was quiet. The town was settling in for the night.
Or so it seemed.
History would remember two lanterns hung in the Old North Church, the midnight ride of Paul Revere, and at daybreak, the battle of Lexington and later, Concord, that would open the American Revolution.
But there were some things it would not remember.
On the second floor of Newman House, whose owner resentfully let rooms to the King's officers, a captain in the proud scarlet regimentals of the Fourth Foot sat at his desk, finishing the letter he'd begun earlier to his family in far-off England. . . .
Newman House, 18 April, 1775
My dear brother, Lucien,
It has just gone dark and as I pen these words to you, an air of rising tension hangs above this troubled town. Tonight, several regiments — including mine, the King's Own — have been ordered by General Gage, commander in chief of our forces here in Boston, out to Concord to seize and destroy a significant store of arms and munitions that the rebels have secreted there. Due to the clandestine nature of this assignment, I have ordered my batman, Billingshurst, to withhold the posting of this letter until the morrow, when the mission will have been completed and secrecy will no longer be of concern.
Although it is my most ardent hope that no blood will be shed on either side during this endeavour, I find that my heart, in these final moments before I must leave, is restless and uneasy. It is not for myself that I am afraid, but another. As you know from my previous letters home, I have met a young woman here with whom I have become attached in a warm friendship. I suspect you do not approve of my becoming so enamoured of a storekeeper's daughter, but things are different in this place, and when a fellow is three thousand miles away from home, love makes a far more desirable companion than loneliness. My dear Miss Paige has made me happy, Lucien, and earlier tonight, she accepted my plea for her hand in marriage. I beg you to understand, and forgive, for I know that someday when you meet her, you will love her as I do.
My brother, I have but one thing to ask of you, and knowing that you will see to my wishes is the only thing that calms my troubled soul during these last few moments before we depart. If anything should happen to me — tonight, tomorrow, or at any time whilst I am here in Boston — I beg of you to find it in your heart to show charity and kindness to my angel, my Juliet, for she means the world to me. I know you will take care of her if ever I cannot. Do this for me and I shall be happy, Lucien.
I must close now, as the others are gathered downstairs in the parlour, and we are all ready to move. May God bless and keep you, my dear brother, and Gareth, Andrew, and sweet Nerissa, too.
Charles
"Captain? Forgive my intrusion, sir, but everyone's waiting downstairs for you. It's nearly time to leave."
"Yes, I am sensible to it. I shall be down directly, and do thank everyone for their patience with me, Ensign Gillard." The captain scanned his letter. "Not worried about tonight, now, are you?" he asked conversationally, not looking up as he folded the correspondence.
"Well, not exactly worried, sir, but . . . well, do you have a bad feeling about this mission?"
Lord Charles raised his head and regarded him quietly for a moment. "And here I thought it was me," he admitted, his expression both amused and reassuring.
""Everything will be all right, won't it, sir?"
"Of course, Gillard." The smile broadened. "Isn't it always?"
"Yes. Yes, I suppose it is." Gillard grinned back. "I'll leave you now, sir."
"Thank you. I shall be down in a moment."
Gillard closed the door, and dipping his quill in the ink once more, the officer wrote his brother's address across the front of the letter:
To His Grace the Duke of Blackheath, Blackheath Castle, nr Ravenscombe, Berkshire, England
There. It was done.
Putting down his pen, Lord Charles Adair de Montforte rose to his feet, picked up his hat and sword, and, leaving the letter propped on his desk, strode boldly out of the room, down the stairs, and to his fate.
A fate so tragic that even Gillard's premonition could not have foreseen its very horror.