Oxford. Or Wallingford. Somewhere round there. Somewhere round there?
It had occurred to Sir Gilbert the pair hadn’t been married at all, simply carried on as they liked in the madcap Royalist camp.
Bella had spared them most of the gruesome details but it didn’t take a military genius to work out what had happened.
Bella, waiting with the waggons and baggage, peering over the field for her youthful hero.
Only her youthful hero had been killed and the men pouring over the hedge were enemy soldiers. Drunk on plunder and God knew what else.
“I would say Mistress Telling,” Telling began woodenly, “has made a miraculous recovery. And will soon be back to her usual self.”
Sir Gilbert’s unruly eyebrows twitched.
Please God she wouldn’t recover all her old spirit. Look where it had got her. Look where it had got them.
Bath Guildhall, a few shillings tucked about his person. More on the way if Starling could organise his affairs quickly enough.
Good business opportunities didn’t grow from seed, although the gold he’d brought with him might help seed some new enterprise.
He just needed a few moments to gather his thoughts. He hated chasing the game, reacting to the variously unfolding chaos rather than planning his next course of action.
The question was, where should he go? Back to Bristol? He owned half the warehouses on Canon’s Marsh and the docks, most of the cottage industries which had sprung up along the approaches to the castle.
That’s where he had invested the most of his fortune. More at Chipping Marleward, Kilmersden Hall.
But Bristol had to be high on the New Model’s To Do list. And he’d sailed pretty close to the wind the last time the city had been besieged. And how would he hang on to his estates, with Cromwell and his crew on their way West?
He noticed Telling was looking at him intently. What was the man of God plotting? Why had he tagged along with the madcap mission out of Marlborough?
Bella. That’s why. Another poor moth fluttering in her blazing torch. Wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last.
The merchant paused, schemes and riddles and secret messages spiralling off in an entirely new direction.
Telling. Respected man of God, right-hand man to Cromwell and his psalm-singing crew. Maybe he would come in useful, helping right Morrison’s desperately unsteady ship. A hand on the tiller, an eye to the wind and all that nonsense.
And a hand on Bella. Two, he shouldn’t wonder.
She wasn’t going to win the lordling or earl he’d hoped for. Not now she’d had her head-turning good looks knocked out of her.
But a man of God could prove a useful ally, aye, in the trials to come. Might be able to put a good word in for him when the mighty New Model arrived outside Bristol. Ease him through a potentially awkward reunion with his former masters.
That business with Parliament’s money. A thousand pound in good coin. A terrible misunderstanding. Which could see him hang.
But this New Model would need arms and armour, beer and bread the same as the other lot.
All he needed was someone to put a word in for him.
“What troubles you sir?” Telling inquired. Sir Gilbert beamed.
“Why nothing, nothing at all my good sir. I was merely reflecting you have hit the nail upon the head sir,” Mary Keziah winced. “Our beautiful Bella has made a miraculous recovery. Thanks to young Mary here, and your own ceaseless efforts of course, Mr Telling.”
Bella glanced up at her father. Two minutes. Two minutes it had taken him to pick his jaw up from the floor, fix it to his bloody chin and get his mouth in gear again.
He wasn’t serious? Did he imagine he’d marry her off to Hugo’s brother? Look where that had got the old King Henry.
Oh good Christ. He would and all.
“Mr Telling, pardon me from being forward, or from distracting you from your duties with the army,” he began. “But I would be delighted to extend a warm welcome to you sir, to join us on our journey back to Bristol,” Sir Gilbert improvised. “In order that your continued ministrations might further speed Bella…I mean Mistress Telling’s, complete recovery.”
Telling looked dumbfounded.
“I…that is…our warrant, our pass, alas, extends to Bath and no further.“ Telling explained, wondering what the old rogue was getting at. Did he think he could roam the country at will, armed with bible alone?
“Oh come now. Passes, warrants,” he clicked his fingers, “are mere scraps of paper. I sign this, he signs that. I am sure I could pull a few strings, ensure that you are able to continue to light my daughter’s road to recovery,” he exclaimed.
“I must say sir, no offence to good old Will or the Cornish gentlemen, but they have become somewhat wayward in their choice of language and behaviour. Allow me to observe sir, that you have had a remarkable effect on my daughter, and I for one would not wish to be denied the boon you have brought, to me, to us,” he added.
Bella would have laughed, if she wasn’t already weeping.
Mary Keziah threw her arm around the pale girl’s shoulder, careful not to further injure her poor arm. She held her close as if Bella was pondering an immediate escape via the guildhall’s leaded windows.
Wouldn’t be the first time she had fled her father’s best laid plans.
“I will speak to the governor, the moment we have completed matters here,” Morrison observed cheerily. He turned to Mary Keziah, eyeing him suspiciously from behind his daughter’s shoulder.
“It’s time our Will made an honest woman of Mary here, aye, and put everything to rights. Isn’t that right Mr Telling?”
Telling was still trying to work out what traps the merchant had laid.
“Why yes of course sir. I have made all the arrangements necessary for the spousals.”
Mary Keziah could hardly comprehend they were talking about her. As if they were shifting a rack of chops from one side of the shop to the other.
“I shall send word to Sparrow. Shall we say noon, in the Guildhall chapel?”
“Capital!” Sir Gilbert replied. “I love a good wedding,” he said, casting Bella a meaningful look.
Bella made sure she was looking the other way.
By the Guildhall and elsewhere, July 6, 1645
Sparrow felt another stab of resentment as Telling hurried him along toward the Guildhall as if he was a naughty schoolboy late for his lessons.
“I have arranged the ceremony for noon sharp, Sparrow. I am sure this mysterious headache of yours will clear up, with a little fresh air,” he observed testily.
They had been obliged to haul buckets of water over the pair to rouse them from their noisome slumbers in the guardroom. A dish of soap and the dregs from the water jug had been pressed into service to make the pair as presentable as possible.
First Porthcurn now the reverend, hurrying him on to the destiny he had been thinking about - on and off - for more than two years. Peculiar to think the day had finally dawned - when he would put all to rights and marry the mother of his overly energetic offspring.
Aye, it was high time he made amends, removed the disgrace from Mary Keziah and himself. He could look Eagleton in the eye, hold his head up high in the exalted company of the New Model’s officer corps.
And yet…and yet part of him pulled against the rules and regulations they were so keen on re-attaching him to. He’d been all over the southern half of the country - from Portsmouth to London to Cornwall and Gloucester. Without answering to anybody - apart from his commanding officers.
Far further than he would ever have travelled as a lowly printer’s apprentice. Despite the commissariat’s dismal performance, he had been paid (and spent) more than he would ever have earned back at Greesham’s. The share of his haul from Penmethock had further expanded his possibilities. He still had a purse full of coin from that murderous enterprise.
Aye, and a selection of rings he had lifted - or exchanged with other raider
s.
Well it didn’t make sense to march around the country carrying furniture and paintings, did it?
He had picked out the finest ring for Mary. A more modest gold band for him.
And he knew from experience Mary Keziah wasn’t the sort of woman to simply fall in to line with whatever he dictated. She’d spent far too much time with Bella during her teenaged years to take on the role of the dumb and dutiful goodwife.
And from the little he’d seen of young Callum - well. The boy had damn near castrated him within two minutes of their meeting. A particularly painful encounter he wasn’t going to forget in a hurry.
Porthcurn was grinning sardonically, striding along beside Sparrow’s forlorn hope of a wedding party.
They reached the Guildhall, built out proud of the High Street like a massive, golden stoned galleon. Civilians were hurrying about their business, heads down and muttering, crossing the street to avoid the plague-ridden strangers.
Sir Gilbert was waiting in the doorway, wringing his hands, nodding and beaming to all concerned and those that weren‘t.
“Capital. Lovely day for it. Good day to you sir!” Sir Gilbert was acquainted with some of the traders and hadn’t passed up the opportunity to check on the local market. The ones who owed him money changed tack and disappeared into the network of alleys radiating off the High Street. Every now and again the merchant would duck inside the doorway, having spied someone who held his debt.
No change there then, Sparrow observed. Sir Gilbert spotted them, waved the kerchief with which he had been mopping his sweat-beaded brow.
“Ah there you are Sparrow. We were just about to send a messenger after you!”
Sparrow showed his teeth. Porthcurn eyed the slippery merchant, fully capable of turning his coat quicker than blink. He’d looked as miserable as sin the previous evening, but had clearly discovered some of his former vigour.
“Come along, come along. His Excellency the Reverend Telling hasn’t got all day!”
His Excellency? Was Morrison taking the piss?
Sparrow eyed the merchant, who had moved in on the late arrivals and was busily brushing the worst of the dust and webs from the captain’s shoulders.
So Telling had joined the conspiracy had he? Unaccountably intent on seeing Sparrow betrothed to his long suffering sweetheart.
Aye, he could imagine why and all. With Sparrow safely wed he would have easier access to Bella, insinuate himself with the bewildered girl’s father. He’d seen the way Telling had looked at her during their eventful journey from Marlborough. No mistaking the look, he had been casting the same himself.
For more years he had cared to remember.
“Here we go, here we go,” Sir Gilbert enthused, steering the captain under the ornate doorway and into the gloomily lit hall.
Porthcurn stepped in beside him, nodded at Sir Thomas Bridges, the reluctant governor. As usual the garrison commander was attended by half a dozen councillors and citizens, busy whispering in his ear. A whole posse of local traders, dignitaries and their womenfolk were backed into the passage, barely leaving enough room for the betrothed.
“Colonel Porthcurn, I would appreciate a word, once we have…”
“Yes yes, do you know Sir Thomas? We go back years you know,” Morrison went on, charging into the midst of Bath’s finest and vigorously shaking hands with the nervy-looking governor.
“Here’s the man himself, Captain Sparrow I told you about. Come to put things right with my Mary. I don’t know what I’ll do without her - with Sparrow carrying her off to God knows where. And about time too, eh?” He gave the governor a familiar dig in the ribs. The reinforced wedding party made its way down various ground-floor passages to the tiny chapel.
Morrison and Telling to the flanks and Porthcurn bringing up the rear - Sparrow was hemmed in the same as he had been back in the pike block.
They snatched off their hats, smoothed the worst of the creases from their doublets as half the population of Bath crowded in behind them.
Sparrow peered over his shoulder, narrowed his eyes.
“I don’t know any of these people. Who do they think I am, Prince Rupert?” he asked Porthcurn. The Cornishman, who had been highly amused by Sparrow’s all too evident discomfort, frowned for a moment.
“The rogues. They know you’re out from Parliament and they’re all too familiar with the merchant there. They’re thinking it’s time to build a few bridges while there’s still time,” Porthcurn accused. “Aye, bridges with Bridges there,” he nodded toward the governor, head bent in conversation with the merchant.
“Building bridges with me? A captain of dragoons? I’m not likely to carry much weight, if they’re after compounding.”
Royalist sympathisers caught up in newly won Parliamentary jurisdictions were expected to pay for their previous errors of allegiance. With good coin, livestock or parts of their estate. The bigger the offence, the bigger the fine.
Porthcurn and Sparrow eyed the suddenly beaming and pointing crowd. Did the rogues know something they didn’t?
“Here she is!” Morrison cried, clapping his hands. Sparrow glanced around, couldn’t help beaming as his bride strode into the fuzzily lit chapel on Bella’s good arm. The merchant darted forward to relieve his daughter of his prized housekeeper, patting her shoulder with genuine fondness.
“Bless my boots Mary, but you look grand! Ah, good staff don’t grow from seed and I wager I’ll never find better than you my dear!”
Sparrow forgave Sir Gilbert his heartfelt observations. He had never seen Mary Keziah look as fetching as she did caught up in the sunbeams angling in to the chapel. She had borrowed a deep green gown which showed off her clear complexion, the widely smiling mouth, the dark curls held back by a broad, dark red band.
If she had dared wear such a garment in the New Model’s encampment she could have wavedd goodbye to her nose, but Sparrow wasn’t inclined to say so.
Another vague doubt he’d worry about later.
Mary Keziah glanced nervously at the crowd, found Sparrow, gazing across the chapel at her. Her coy smile banished any doubts he had entertained, filled his not inconsiderable chest with pride. They could all see what a fine catch she was, housekeeper or no.
Callum was clutching her skirts, peering out wide eyed as heir unexpected guests oozed and ahhed and clapped politely. Mary Keziah had wrapped his reins about her fist, keeping the boy closely curbed.
“There you are my dear,“ Telling nodded at the pair of them, showed them forward to the diminutive altarpiece. He spread his broken-spined bible on the dais, gestured Sparrow forward.
Morrison and Porthcurn took up station behind the captain as he strode forward, lifted Mary Keziah’s hand and pressed it in his calloused fists.
“We’ll put things right, Mary,” he promised, pulling her as close a decency allowed.
He smiled at her, delighted she could be quite so beautiful.
More beautiful than she had been that night before Roundway. And she’d stolen his wits easily enough that night.
Bella took the boy by the hand and steered him toward Sir Gilbert, who lifted him in his arms, settled the lad with avuncular familiarity. But then again Sir Gilbert had been the nearest to a father young Callum had ever known, having spent all his life in the merchant’s tumultuous household.
A role he was going to have to get used to, and quick.
Telling coughed. “Shall we get on?”
*************************
Sparrow barely remembered the next half hour. Telling’s gruffly uncertain welcome, his sideways thanks for the congregation’s unexpected attention. Thick fingers moving over the worn testament as if he could identify his text from the grain of the well-thumbed pages.
“I, William Sparrow take thou Mary Keziah Pitt to be my handfast wife, refusing all other women for thy sake, and thereto I plight thee my troth,” he had recited.
And Mary, brusquely confident as if she had picked up on Telling’s
impatience:
“I, Mary Keziah Pitt do take thee William Sparrow to my handfast husband, refusing all other men for thy sake, and thereto I give thee my troth.”
“I then pronounce you man and wife,” Telling concluded, almost tripping over the words he was in such a hurry to see them wed. He smiled at the happy couple and closed his bible. The happy couple didn’t notice his eyes slipping sideways, catching Bella’s wandering glance. William fixed the ring to Mary’s finger. It looked outrageously opulent, almost piratical on her forefinger.
“Bravo, huzzah for William and Mary!” the chapel rang with cheers and good wishes.
Sparrow leaned over and kissed his bride on the cheek, Mary Keziah’s dark eyes flicking mischievously.
“Would everybody care to join us at The Three Tuns, where I have ordered cakes and small beer for all on this God-blessed day,” Sir Gilbert called. “And let us all pause to pray,” he went on, eyeing the company with pious intensity, “That the happy couple and all guests here today can enjoy their nuptuals in peace.”
“Amen!”
The congregation’s enthusiastic reaction seemed genuine enough - for once.
Porthcurn scowled. He’d seen more backbone in a bucketful of jellyfish.
By God he’d had his fill of this damned place. The Roundheads were welcome to it.
*************************
The Roundheads were welcome to Bridgwater and all - but they weren’t going to get it without a fight.
Not if George Goring had his way.
The maverick commander was swirling a large cup of sack, watching the dark liquid swirl and flare with colours reflected from the stand of candles which had been dragged out to illuminate the al fresco council of war.
Give him his due, the beardless wonder Rupert had seen fit to carry his latest dictat was standing his ground right enough, bright eyes flicking this way and that along his assembled officer corps.
Veterans all in greasy buff coats - the sleeves lined with gold or silver lace. Richly embroidered doublets and breeches, lawn and lace, roll-top boots. Some favoured large hats, festooned with feathers. Others ornate Polish helmets, segmented neck guards worked with intricate filigree designs. They all wore expensively engraved Walloon swords. Their gear alone could have equipped a regiment or two.
Black Tom's Red Army Page 33
