“That right?”
“The King’s men have buggered off West. They’ve lost the Midlands,” Sparrow elaborated.
“Ash, take care of the horses. You’d best come on in to the Lamb. Tell me all about it over that cider you promised me.”
*************************
Sparrow ordered the dragoons to watch the road, leaving Muffet and Butcher to keep an eye over the coach and its coffin cargo.
The driver and his mate watered the team while the dragoons dismounted, three of them leading their horses to the smithy while the other three waited in the street, reins in fists and firelocks ready.
The majority of the clubmen had dispersed to their homes, relieved the day hadn’t ended in the entire village being burnt to the ground.
Telling collected Bella from the coach, helped her in to the Lamb.
Sparrow and Blunt had already taken a table, Ash and a couple of the youngsters lingering by the servery as the goodwife hurried out with a couple of flagons and a platter of fresh bread.
Sparrow tipped new coins into his palm and passed them over.
“Get the lads a drink, and get them one as well,” he suggested, nodding at the farmboys across the parlour. That seemed to take the sting out of their unwelcome visit.
Maybe Parliament should buy drinks all round, finish the war in a week.
“So it’s true then, the King’s been beated up north?” Blunt inquired.
Sparrow drained his cup. By God that was good.
“Aye. I was there. We took all his foot, his guns and all his coach and papers.”
“I heard some tittle-tattle about that. Armies of Irish and heathen papists come to rob us of what little we’ve left,” Blunt said, lowering his voice.
Like many well-to-do traders, Blunt had sympathised with the Parliament. But a butcher had to go with the flow same as every other bugger. So he had stayed put and run his business as best he could. Under Hopton’s hit-and-miss authority.
He’d achieved a measure of protection, providing meat for the garrison at Bath. At least that had stopped the worst of the depredations. Every now and again a patrol had come in and helped themselves, that had been the way of it.
Which was why the local villagers had clubbed together.
“I saw the coach with my own eyes. All the king’s chests and cabinets, carried off to army headquarters.”
Blunt jumped to his feet as Telling helped Bella to the table. Sparrow eyed the big fat fingers locked around her forearm. Thought about unpicking them himself.
He stood as Telling made the introductions.
“Miss…Mistress Bella Telling, Morrison as was,” Blunt bowed his head. “Merchant Morrison’s daughter,” he observed. Haughty little madam, always had been.
Blunt barely recognised her now though, bruised and battered like some village drudge.
Morrison bought his bacon for the Bristol garrison though, so it wouldn’t do to say so.
“Back from the wars and grievously wounded,” Telling explained.
“I’m sure we’re honoured to have you here my dear. There’s a good room here, if you’ve a mind to break your journey,” Blunt wondered.
Sparrow helped himself to another cider.
“We might just take you up on that. We’ve come a long way.”
“From Naseby?”
Sparrow noted the butcher’s carefully vacant expression. He’d have to watch it. You couldn’t trust any bugger these days.
“We’ve been all over,” he said guardedly. “We couldn’t fit the whole army on to one road, so they’ve split us up into a number of columns. But they’ve orders to pay for everything they take.”
Blunt considered this.
“I’ve heard as much,” he admitted, “but we’ve been robbed and raided on and off for two years and more. Nobody’s got a penny to their name,” he explained, shrugging his generously upholstered shoulders as if that might convince Sparrow of his borderline malnutrition.
“I’ve seen Fairfax hang looters for taking a hatful of eggs. Isn’t that right Mr Telling?”
Telling nodded gravely.
“Parliament has given strict orders to all its field commanders. All looters, robbers, marauders and rapists will be hanged without exception.” Blunt looked impressed.
Bella’s blue-green eyes flicked sideways. Sparrow poured her and Telling another cup of cider. Well maybe not all.
“The New Model pays its way,” he said cheerfully, tipping more coins from his purse.
“Who’s for another round?”
*************************
Muffet ducked into the inn, nodded to Sparrow.
“Excuse me a moment while I make sure the men are bedded down for the night.”
“Help yourself Will,” Blunt called. He was either half cut or a superb actor.
Telling sipped his cider. Bella looked as demure as she could in her drab gown and stained bonnet. She had barely said a word.
Christ, she’d changed. As if all her old spirit had been beaten out of her.
Sparrow left them to it, ducked out of the inn, surprised how quickly the dusk had crept up on the place. Muffet fell into place in the shadows, pipe glowing.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing yet,” the musketeer replied sucking on his pipe. “Comings and goings on the Bradford road. They’ve shoed the horses. Snow’s back round the coach.”
Admirably concise as always. You didn’t get alot of blather from the Elder Sergeant. Another thing Sparrow could rely on.
“Keep ’em close. Don’t for God’s sake let them wander off. Have you seen those damned sweeps?”
Muffet shook his head.
“I haven’t seen hide nor hair of ’em since Marlborough. I reckon they’ve legged it.”
“Most likely. I don’t see how they could have kept up with us anyway,” Sparrow observed. “We didn’t exactly hang about.” They must have made fifteen miles the first day and the same again today.
“What’s up? I thought they knew you?”
“They do. But that doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods yet.”
“I didn’t say it did. But the majority of them have locked up for the night. When it’s dark Billy and I will take a turn down the road, make sure they’ve not sent for help.”
Help? Where were they going to get help? Bristol, Bath? They knew full well if they invited the King’s men into town they could wave goodbye to Blunt’s horse, the few knackered cows and rag-bag hens they had left.
“I’ve tipped one of the village boys to carry a note to Monkton. See about that pass of ours. I don’t fancy going much closer to Bath, not without word from Bella’s father.”
Morrison’s word. Carried as much weight as a waxwing in a gale, Muffet thought.
“This seems as good a place as any to sit and wait. We’ll know by this time tomorrow whether Morrison’s managed to get the pass or not.”
“Or not?”
“We’ll worry about that tomorrow.”
“Right you are Will. I’ll get Billy then.”
“Good man. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on Blunt. He seems to be in charge around here. If there’s going to be any mischief he’d be involved in it.”
“Alright Will. Go easy on the scrumpy though,” he advised.
“Just keeping up appearances Col.”
Muffet blew a smoke ring.
“Aye,” he agreed.
*************************
Sparrow watched the goodwife ship Bella off to the best room with barely a murmur. Mothering instincts, Sparrow supposed.
Bella had been dozing, tired, childlike in the flickering candlelight. He shuddered to think what had become of the girl’s legendary independent streak. Sapped and battered out of her on her travels with the army.
Telling took the garret. Night had fallen and the goodwife had made up a fire in the narcotically comfortable snug.
Sparrow blinked, rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Blunt was nodding over his cups, his gaggle of sons long since made off home.
Sparrow went to the window, peered into the pitch dark street. Candles glimmered in cottage windows across the green.
“Will that be all sir?” the goodwife asked.
“A blanket for the cold, and I’ll make myself comfortable by the fire,” Sparrow said, turning his chair into the alcove. Where he had a clear view of the door.
The goodwife took a light from the candle and went to fetch Sparrow’s blanket.
William lifted his satchel, removed a couple of primed pistols and tucked them under the settle where he could get hold of them in case of trouble.
He felt more vulnerable in the warm snug than out on the road, but there was little more they could have done. By the time they had defused the local clubmen they wouldn’t have got much further toward Bath. Lonely downs and bare hills wouldn’t have offered much cover. Not this close to a Royalist garrison.
Blunt maintained the governor was a nervy sort, unlikely to order aggressive patrols at this time of night. But you never knew.
“You won’t get any trouble from him Will. I’ve heard tell he’s been nobbled by Parliament before now. They say Waller himself rode up on the understanding he would hand the place over.”
First Sparrow had heard about that. Surely Eagleton would have mentioned the fact the Governor was a potential turncoat, just like merchant Morrison. Unless the commissioner had other plans for him.
“Here’s your blanket sir,” the goodwife glanced at Blunt, head on arm and snoring gently.
“Don’t worry about him sir. He’s often the same,” she said, muttering and shushing as she took herself off. Sparrow watched her climb the stairs. He made himself comfortable, wondering whether Bella was asleep. Before he could work out what he thought about that, he was out cold himself.
By Holt and elsewhere, July 5, 1645
The smell of frying bacon had permeated the inn and finally brought Sparrow out of his stupor.
He threw back his blanket and went to sit up, instantly thought better of it. He clutched his forehead, remembered where he was and groped for his pistols in the feeble dawn glimmer.
God’s bones, what was it now?
He clambered to his feet, steadied himself on the back of the settle.
Head banging, he peered out of the frosted windows. Or at least he hoped it was frosted windows. Either that or the cider had been stronger than he remembered.
Low conversations, horses whinnying to one another across the courtyard. Mice scurrying in the panelling. Lowered voices.
He lifted the piss pot from beneath the settle and was steadying his aim when Muffet poked his thin grey head around the door.
Sparrow knew from long experience something was up. Muffet, eyebrows raised, jerked his thumb toward the high street.
“Your message boy’s back. With a squad of horse,” Muffet reported.
Sparrow cursed under his breath. They hadn’t hung about.
“Where’s the rest of our lads?”
“Around the coach. All ready Will.”
“Good man. By God my head feels like I’ve got a culverin in it,” he moaned, the noisome snug swirling and pitching about his boots.
Muffet raised an eyebrow.
Blunt was stirring from his place at table, his shirt stained to the elbows. Blinking in the early morning sunshine as if he was having difficult uncrossing his eyes.
“What’s up now?” he croaked.
Sparrow thought better of striding out to meet them armed like a pirate, and replaced the pistols in the satchel. He shoved it under the settle next to the half-full piss pot, straightened up too quickly and watched the room slide sideways all over again.
“Royalist horse,” Muffet reported. Blunt hauled himself to his feet and straightened his doublet with a curse.
Just what they needed. Those greedy locusts from Bristol.
Too late to call the lads out now.
He lifted his hat from a pool of stale cider and flicked the worst onto the floor.
“Let me do the talking,” he advised. “We don’t want any trouble,” he strode toward the door, banged his knee against a bench and swore under his breath.
Sparrow followed the butcher out into the crisp early morning. Muffet and Butcher, firelocks cradled, had taken what cover they could in the alley beside the inn.
The coach was standing across the road, the driver and his mate busy about the harnesses.
Sparrow peered down the street, focusing on the knot of horsemen hanging back across the other side of the green. Running was out of the question. They wouldn’t make it to the end of the street.
The villagers were hurrying this way and that - keeping their heads down now the local garrison had turned up.
No sign of their damned banner now, Sparrow thought grimly, wondering whether Blunt had lured them all into a trap. Eagleton had questioned that the clubmen’s neutrality, observing they leaned toward the King’s party - by and large.
Sparrow’s nostrils twitched, bacon and fresh horse droppings churning his stomach.
He straightened his hat, checked his rear and strode into the middle of the street with all the swagger he could muster.
“We‘ve got your back Will,” Muffet called.
A moment or two later a couple of the horsemen swirled and focused from the indistinct blobs of colour at the far end of the street. They trotted on in to the village, their prancing mounts curbed damn near sideways.
Sparrow watched them approach, a tough-looking officer in a dark blue suit with bright red sash followed by a nervous ensign.
The two of them pulled up, the officer’s dark eyes sliding this way and that over the windows and doorways. He noted half a dozen Roundheads at most, firelocks and fowling pieces. He leaned over his horse’s neck to study the enemy emissary.
“Telling, is it?” the officer called. “Out from the Parliament?”
Blunt had found his hat, hurried across the road to join Sparrow.
“Sparrow. Okey’s dragoons, New Model Army,” the captain replied, lifting his hat and sweeping it to his right. “Chaplain Telling is within,” Sparrow inclined his head toward the still slumbering inn.
The Royalist officer lifted his hat in return, leaned closer.
“Colonel Scipio Porthcurn. Bristol garrison. We had word of your arrival.”
Who from??
“Is that the coach?” Porthcurn inquired. Francy Snow and a couple of his lads stepped out from their cover behind the black carriage. Porthcurn counted three coffins, strapped to the roof just as the preposterous note had promised.
“Come on down sir. Ash, take the gentleman’s horse,” Blunt instructed his truculent son.
Porthcurn swung out of the saddle and straightened his weapons, handed the reins to the Butcher’s apprentice.
Sparrow noticed young Ashley bowing and scraping as the King’s man ignored him. Some things never changed, he thought grimly.
Porthcurn took off his gloves, walked up to the heavyset Roundhead. Sparrow noted the businesslike swagger, the easy swing of the broadsword along his roll-top boots. He looked familiar and all, dark eyes, black beard. A regular pirate.
His dark eyes widened. Then narrowed.
“I know you,” Porthcurn accused, eyes narrowing. “Penmethock courthouse. The road outside Bridport,” he shook his head. “Your men damn near killed me climbing on that fucking boat,” he snarled. Sparrow paled, desperately trying to collect his wits.
That rogue on the black horse, he had damn near run them down in the marshes outside Poole.
He’d come close to cutting the fugitive raiders off from the safety of Parliament’s ship the Anne and Joyce. But hadn’t Butcher shot the bastard dead as they struggled in the brackish lagoons?
“You cracked me round the head with a pistol,” Sparrow countered, fingertips feeling for the old wound.
Porthcurn stared about him, rather more alarmed now. What in seven hells were
the rogues after now? These swinish bandits had left a trail of destruction half way across Cornwall and into Dorset. His fist closed about the well-worn hilt of his broadsword.
Treachery - never far below the surface with this damned crew.
Francy Snow took a step away from the coach, lowering his firelock a notch or two.
“You’ve ridden in to a parley matey, no need to go stroking your pizzle here.”
Porthcurn glared at the insolent dragoon, but let the sword be.
“What devilry have you hatched now? Do these people know what you got up to in Penmethock?“ Porthcurn demanded. Sparrow bristled. Blunt had gone a nasty shade of yellow, hatless and hopeless in the middle of a damned bull fight.
“Don’t lecture me on that damned shambles,” Sparrow retorted. “That bloody rat’s nest deserved everything it got. They were going to ship us off to Flanders - that swivel eyed bastard Cruickshank threw me and my men overboard the moment he saw a Parliament man-o-War coming up on the wind,” Sparrow exclaimed, toe-to-toe with the glowering Royalist.
“You would have hanged, if we’d caught you,” Porthcurn leered, jabbing a finger at Sparrow’s chest.
“And we would have hanged you, as part of that bastard crew,” Sparrow countered, reddening. “And we heard what happened to the wounded and all. The maimed men we left behind,” he accused.
Campfire tittle-tattle had it a dozen of the badly wounded had been done in by the villagers - the moment Sparrow’s survivors had slipped away over the hills.
Porthcurn chewed the side of his mouth. Aye, he couldn’t argue with that.
“I had nothing to do with that. They were dead by the time I got there. But I would have hung the bastards all the same,” he vowed. “By all the articles of war, they deserved it.”
Aye, Sparrow could believe that and all. But he wasn’t about to concede the point to this bruiser.
“Badly wounded men bludgeoned to death by pirates and villagers? What articles of war are you talking about?”
“Gentlemen,“ Telling called from the inn doorway. “We are here in good faith, to deliver your fallen officers and this poor young woman back to her father. We are not here to argue the rights and wrongs of every single deed done in this unhappy war. By God above, we’d be here all summer.”
Black Tom's Red Army Page 29
