Black Tom's Red Army

by Nicholas Carter

  Telling gave the schoolmaster a long, cool look. “Indeed. We were taken to Bath under guard. The coffins contained the mortal remains of Royalist officers, lately killed at Naseby field.”

  “And young Bella, Miss Morrison as was,” Blunt reminded him. “The merchant’s daughter. Aye, that’s the one. She was in the coach.”

  Many of the clubmen had heard of Gilbert Morrison. And his wayward daughter. They were not quite sure what they should make of the fact Bella had joined the mysterious party.

  “Brought to Bath, to take the waters,” Telling snarled, consumed by the vision of her, legs and arms wrapped around that glowering, hairy-backed primate Porthcurn.

  Blunt misread the look.

  “Has something happened to Miss Morrison sir?” he wondered aloud. Telling drew in a breath.

  “Aye. Raped, beaten, ruined,” he intoned, voice dripping with leaden menace. “By the King’s officers. In the new bath, close beside the King’s Bath.”

  Blunt blinked, shocked by Telling’s carelessly remembered explanation.

  The clubmen exchanged glances.

  “And what about that Will Sparrow and his men?”

  “Imprisoned in the Bridewell. Despite a pass signed on behalf of Rupert himself.”

  Blunt shook his head, not liking the sound of these dangerous transgressions.

  “Breaking the terms of their warrant? Where do they think they are, Bohemia?”

  “They will regret their treachery, when the New Model Army arrives at the gates,” Telling leered.

  “Aye, they will,” Blunt agreed. The schoolmaster slapped the table in temper.

  “You’ve ever been for the Parliament, Blunt. I don’t know why you didn’t ride off and join them, three years since!”

  Blunt flushed at the accusation.

  “I do no such thing. I’ll abide by our code whatever army has the whip hand - come what may!”

  “Pah, you’re no more than a fair-weather Roundhead, if the truth be told!”

  Telling crossed his arms, frowned at the bickering councillors.

  “There is but one army in the field capable of restoring the proper functions and order you require - and that is the New Model Army,” Telling declared flatly.

  “Gatherings such as these will bring the full fury of the army down on your homes and households. The army will pay for all it needs, from shoes to saddlecloths. I have had this assurance from commissioners of Parliament attached to the army.”

  The clubmen looked doubtful. There were several thousand of them in Wells alone. The Reverend’s precious army wouldn’t dare take up arms against such a force.

  Would they?

  “He’s right. The New Model’s in charge now,” Blunt agreed, his agile mind leap-frogging ahead of the mob. “Mr Telling could prove very useful to us, if we need to negotiate with them,” he pointed out.

  The schoolmaster shook his head, astonished at the all too predictable about-face.

  Telling turned his baleful gaze on the fool - unaware the worn floorboards were turning to quicksand beneath his boots.

  “The King’s cause is lost and in ruins,” he declared. “His forces have melted away to the far West and Wales. The New Model Army will be masters here, within weeks. I would suggest you send these poor folk home, before you expose your poor neighbours to further, and quite unnecessary hazard.”

  The schoolmaster scowled, ran a forefinger under his suddenly constricting collar.

  “Prince Rupert holds Bristol. Do you imagine your precious army will chase him out just like that?” he parried.

  Telling looked unimpressed.

  “With what? Welsh farm boys straight off the boat? His garrison’s stricken by plague, he’s losing a dozen a day,” Telling scoffed. “I was there, the day before yesterday.”

  Blunt sensed the mood swing behind their bow-legged guest. The schoolmaster and his supporters closed their mouths, seeing all too clearly which way the wind was blowing.

  “There, didn’t I tell you. Mr Telling’s a sensible sort, sees the rights and wrongs of a situation. If it wasn’t for his common sense, there’d have been bloodshed, aye, and plenty of it, back in Holt!”

  Telling looked at them askance, recognising and despising their weakness.

  And his. He was no soldier. He couldn’t draw sword on brutes like Porthcurn with anything but stone cold sober certainty that he would be cut down, butchered like a calf.

  The thought burned in his chest in concert with his hideously blazing buttocks.

  The knowledge had steered him toward a new path, polished flags appearing before him like stepping stones.

  Almost as if, as if he were being directed by the hand of God.

  “And yet,” he said quietly. Blunt nodded him on. The schoolmaster was drumming his pasty fingers on the tabletop.

  “And yet, there might even be advantage, in such a gathering.”

  “In what way your reverence?”

  “In your ignorance of the true affairs of this sadly divided nation, you have brought hundreds, possibly thousands of men and women into the field.”

  “Aye, to protect our homes and families!” one of the clubmen exclaimed. Telling raised his hand, as if dismissing such motives as unworthy.

  “Perhaps they can yet be put to some sensible use, in the service of Parliament.”

  The schoolmaster pushed the table away.

  “What, enlist with Fairfax and Cromwell? It seems to me they have half the country under arms as it is! He’s pulling the wool over your eyes, can’t you see? Bristol’s full of Welsh and lousy with plague? If that were so the New Model would have taken the place already!”

  The fickle clubmen fidgeted and glanced at one another, unsure as to whom to believe.

  “Let your young men enlist if they wish,” Telling allowed. “But your strength lies in your numbers. Parliament respects your homes and possessions and has hanged dozens, dozens of soldiers caught breaking the army’s strict codes against theft and rapine. It respects your rights to protect your homes and families. In return,” Telling continued, looking from one uncertain face to another, “in return you can offer your services, as a formed association, to the Parliament.”

  “But we don’t want to offer our services to Parliament,“ Blunt observed nervously. “Some of us were for Parliament, aye at the beginning of the war, it’s true. But we had to make our peace quick enough when the King’s men came,” he explained.

  There were nods of assent around the room.

  The schoolmaster shook his head.

  “What are you suggesting exactly? I must have missed your point,” he added contemptuously.

  “I am suggesting you keep your association together and appoint properly qualified mediators, in order to establish as much common ground as possible with the New Model Army.”

  “With those damned fanatics, Presbyterians, independents and God knows what besides?”

  “You want us to give ourselves up to their mercy?”

  “No. I want you to identify and exploit your full value, as a movement, to the army. To enable you to properly represent the people you have caused to be brought together, under arms. Before it is too late.”

  “Hah. A plain threat. You have come to your point at last,” the schoolmaster exclaimed. “You mean to have us cower and hide away as we have the past three years. I don’t see any difference between your damned crew and the King’s men!”

  Telling looked at the schoolmaster, realising the round-faced man was losing what little support he had left.

  “The Reverend’s right. We can’t fight the entire New Model.”

  “Nobody wishes you to fight, least of all the New Model. But you can be of immense service, to speed its victory, and the end of this bloody war.”

  “Amen to that!”

  “In what way? To take the field against the king? I’ll do no such thing!”

  “Not in the field. Here, in your towns and villages and homes. By taking proper control an
d exercising the necessary authority to prevent further breakdown in law. Until the army can clear the remains of the king’s forces away from these unhappy parts and re-establish the rules and rights of parliament.

  “Aye, their rules and their rights, not ours!”

  “Roundhead lies!” the schoolmaster cried.

  But the crowd weren’t so sure now, looking at the ill-stanced reverend as he offered them a perfectly plausible role and future, without running back to their homes like startled rabbits.

  And without having to fight.

  “And who, pray, is going to present our case to the army? Blunt? Mr Smith here? The candle maker?”

  Blunt looked up, nodded at the red-faced reverend.

  “I reckon he’s done a good enough job, aye, so far. He’s out from the Parliament. He’s used to dealing with all their chiefs and secretaries, aye even Master Cromwell himself. He’s better qualified than any of us to represent the people we have called here.”

  “Hear hear!”

  The schoolmaster closed his eyes.

  Telling glared, agonisingly exultant.

  “I have had dealings with Parliament’s officers and commissioners, it is true,” he allowed, as if having to convincing himself of the possibility.

  “Grand! There we are then, it’s all decided!”

  “Cah!”

  *************************

  The next day they paraded their prisoners. A dozen and more stragglers - lost, looters and deserters from both armies. Bruised, beaten and fearful, they closed ranks in the market square, eyeing the massive, horribly excitable mob.

  The clubmen had taken their weapons and re-distributed them to the ablest farmhands. They were standing pleased as punch in front of their less well equipped friends. Aye, and their fawning, red cheeked sweethearts.

  The newly-sworn association committee marched out of the Swan Inn and surveyed the crowd. The town clerk announced them.

  Godfrey Smith, magistrate. Godspeace Lamb, schoolmaster. Thomas Blunt, butcher. Abraham Wallow, candle maker. And their dark suited spokesman, Reverend Edward Telling. Fed, watered, and somewhat relieved after near ten hours’ sleep.

  Lying on his belly. The publican had suggested sending in a serving maid to rub his backside with goose grease, but he had declined the kindly-meant invitation.

  “Order! Quieten down there!”

  A couple of apprentices from the local brewery stood by clutching pen and ledger, ready to jot down their orders.

  The crowd swayed and broiled, trying to get a look at their new messiah. Red-faced and glaring, barrel-chested, sober suit. Thick fingers clutched around well-worn bible.

  They seemed uncertain - had they chucked in with the Parliament then, like the town gossips had maintained? Who was the miserable damned chaplain in the black?

  Telling stood before the crowd, stared ahead in silence as he waited for the mob to quieten down. The rest of the committee exchanged glances.

  The prisoners shuffled, eyed blocked exits as if they could ever offer some means of escape.

  “You men,” Telling began raising his voice above the hubbub, “Will not be harmed.”

  There was a chorus of boos and jostling. An apple core sailed through the air and hit a Royalist dragoon behind his ear.

  “Peace, good people! The prisoners will be taken from their present quarters in the cathedral undercroft…”

  “And hanged like the robbing fiends they are!”

  “And made ready to march under full escort to the nearest properly formed military formation.”

  What? Properly formed military formation? Was that King or Parliament?

  “From this time hence, all stragglers, deserters or looters will be disarmed and confined before being returned to the proper military authorities.”

  “Whose authority?”

  “By this authority,” Telling called, holding his bible higher.

  “And this!” Ashley Blunt lifted his new matchlock, brandished the musket at the confused prisoners.

  Blunt waved his son back into line, shoving the boy behind him with a curse.

  “There will be no hangings or lynchings. There will be no thefts of property. This association will remain in being, and its committee will represent your views, rights and opinions, to the best of our abilities, to the local military authorities.”

  “The King you mean!”

  “No, not the King. The New Model!”

  Telling held his hand up.

  “The committee will only recognise neighbouring associations, and properly formed military authorities,” he shouted. “As long as this association remains in being there will be no further depredations by loose bodies of troops, from either party.”

  The mob exchanged bewildered glances.

  That at least sounded promising - but they had heard plenty of empty promises from preachermen before.

  “The committee,” he went on “has drawn up a list of foodstuffs to be carried in to Wells to feed the present congregation. Mr Lamb, who is known to you,” Telling nodded at the scowling schoolmaster, “has the details.”

  It had been Telling’s idea, allowing their tamed Royalist take responsibility for the logistical nightmare of feeding upwards of two thousand hungry people gathered in the hovels, streets and meadows round about.

  Godspeace Lamb gave him a long cool look, then unrolled the list and began to read.

  Telling surpressed a tiny smile of satisfaction, as the schoolmaster began to outline the latest round of requisitions over a growing clamour of protest.

  Well at least they’d be eating their own food themselves. For once.

  *************************

  Scipio Porthcurn stood by the ancient, moss-etched arrow slit, watched another convoy of carts creak and rumble into the main keep.

  More corn from surrounding farms - gathered in from the garrison’s distant outposts. Out along the Severn, across the downs of South Gloucestershire. The closely tended enclosures and meadows to the west and east.

  Rupert had promised the King he’d hold the place for four months, unless the miserable populace mutinied. He’d need to feed them first.

  Two thousand measures of grain, undernourished cattle. Crates of squawking chickens. Barrels of beer and powder. Bundles of pikes. But nothing in the way of reinforcement for the garrison.

  Rupert only had a few dozen more men than Nathaniel Fiennes had mustered two years before.

  “What is it?” Bella asked, stretching extravagantly on the rumpled bedding.

  Porthcurn turned, watched her lift her discarded clothing from the floor and tug her shift back over her thin, pale shoulders. Porthcurn almost licked his lips at the sight of her.

  She picked her gown from the floor of the chamber - high in Bristol keep, tugged the bodice strings tight with her good hand.

  Thank God the harsh treatment at Naseby hadn’t left her entirely disabled, he thought lewdly.

  “By heaven, it’s cold,” she complained, rubbing her wounded arm. The chamber was fiercely chill despite the fire in the grate.

  Porthcurn’s quarters weren’t exactly comfortable, but they were high enough in the tower to deter all but the most persistent of visitors.

  And Porthcurn had left word Bella’s father would under no circumstances be admitted to his inner sanctum.

  The Cornishman climbed back into his breeches, tried to keep the smug smile from his face. Bella threw her shoe at him.

  “You go in to council grinning like that, they’ll know fell well you’ve been rogering someone,” she warned, coyly. Porthcurn retrieved the slipper, held it to his nose and drew an enormous breath.

  “Ah!”

  She giggled. He tossed it back over the creased bed.

  “Rogering a willing woman’s not a capital offence in this army,” he leered. “As long as this garrison belongs to the King, I claim right of the first, second and third night to fuck you senseless!” he grinned.

  “For shame sir!” she sc
olded, pale skin reddening. “What on earth do you take me for?”

  Porthcurn had spent many happy hours pondering that particular question.

  “I don’t care Bella. I’m not one of those po-faced preachers.”

  He could say that again, Bella mused.

  “Well, apart from the Prince that is,” Porthcurn whispered conspiratorially.

  Rupert’s strict moral code was widely admired over the other side of the hill.

  Not even the most notorious gossip had managed to dredge much up on him.

  The Parliamentary newsbooks loathed him, loved him and despaired, rather like their masters at Whitehall. They had held long and damaging discussions with his elder brother, and by definition, the whole of House Palatine.

  Cruelly exiled darlings of the English people for the past three decades.

  But Rupert himself was unimpeachable. Too busy charging from pillar to post than to collect unwarranted rumour.

  “Will you be here, when I’m done?” he inquired. Bella shook her head.

  “I must get back. Father’ll be marrying me off to some Redcliff Gate fishmonger if I leave him long enough.”

  Porthcurn grunted agreement. He’d been this close to marrying her off to Telling. That two-faced goatherd.

  “Pass on my regards to your father,” Porthcurn suggested, flexing his shoulders into his reeking doublet.

  He lifted his baldrick from the bedpost, suddenly thoughtful.

  “What is it?” Bella asked, noticing his unfamiliar, absent-minded expression.

  “What? Nothing! I’m late, is all. Rupert’ll have my guts for stirrup straps, if I don’t show my face.”

  She rolled her legs across the bed, stood up and ran her forefinger along his minutely scarred and unshaven jawline.

  “Ummm. Same time tomorrow, and you can show me your face like you did this afternoon,” she quipped.

  By Christ’s bones. The honey blob would do for him. And like as not, he’d not be the last either.

  “Until tomorrow then.” He kissed her hard, tore himself away and closed the door behind him. Before he changed his mind.