by Smith, Skye
He did not know these particular men but he had seen many like them. The dirty faces, or rather, the dirty cheeks were the clue. All professional marksmen had such cheeks. They were caused by the flash of gunpowder when firing a carefully aimed musket. His gut churned. These men could be hired guns, or even assassins. He was not the only professional marksman in this crush of men, but he would make wager that he was the only one who supported Pym.
He decided to find out if they were armed. He turned to face the wall so that no one could see what he was doing and then he slipped his wheel-lock out from under his cloak and carefully, patiently tapped the ball out of it. That done he turned towards the dangerous men so he could watch their reaction, and then behind his back, pointed the tiny pistol to the ground and pulled the trigger.
The bang from this small gun was normally not very loud, yet it seemed like a clap of thunder as it echoed within these walls. No one else was expecting the thunder, so he had the advantage of seeing how everyone else reacted. In such a crush, no one could duck or run. There were a few howls from toes being crushed and a few yells questioning the noise, but mostly there was a stunned silence. The taller men in the crush were twisting their heads trying to see if anyone had been felled by a shot. Pym was doing the same thing, although most others with him on the platform had dived to the floor. They were the only ones in the court with enough space to do so.
The men with the dirty cheeks between Daniel and Pym had all reached inside their cloaks at the level of their belts. It was an instinctive reaction by someone who was carrying. It was safe to assume that the Dirty-cheeks were all hiding pistols under their cloaks. Now he knew, but to find this out, they also knew about him. They were all giving him a hard stare.
He waved his hat above his head to draw all the searching eyes to him, and then he yelled "Yo!" in a voice well used to bellowing into a gale. "Yo!" and "Hear me!" over and over again until enough of the crush had turned towards him and were waiting to hear his explanation for the shot.
"What is the use of all of us coming here to discuss matters of importance if none of us can hear anything because of the shouting of a few? I have just returned from the Battle of Newbourne and I have something important to say to you all."
There were some catcalls, but those were hushed by men saying that they wanted to hear any news direct from Newbourne. Surprisingly, the group in front of him who had been so vocal in shouting down Pym, were now urging the crush to be quiet and listen. They must have thought him a supporter of the king, as they obviously were. If they had taken his measure simply by his Spanish hat, his fine cloak, and his pompous swagger, then this was a logical assumption.
"I fought at Newbourne," Daniel began in a loud but clear voice. "We lost three hundred men at Newbourne and the Scots lost another two hundred, and that is a tragedy for all of their mothers. Five hundred is a lot of men, more than are in this court, but let's put that number in perspective." These were the words that General Leslie had spoken to him after the battle. "There were thirty to thirty-five thousand men sent to fight each other. That is the same as five cities the size of Cambridge."
"Speak up!" The call came from the diagonally opposite corner. "Or the rest of you shut up!" Other voices echoed the words 'shut up'.
"Do you want to know why only five hundred died? Why not the five thousand or ten thousand dead that you read about from such battles on the continent? There was only one reason for this. We were facing the professional general Alexander Leslie, who is on loan to the Scots from Regent Axel of Sweden. Leslie was one of Sweden's Lions of the North who rescued Saxony from the Imperial army and avenged the slaughter of Magdeburg.
I met Leslie at a parley on the evening before the battle. He stared at me over a glass of whisky and told me: Lad, there is no way in Hell that I am going to allow this battle to turn into a continental-style slaughter. He was a man of his word. The next morning his cannons hit us hard and they hit us over and over again, but not to kill us. He just wanted to make us lose our nerve and run away.
You cannot imagine so much noise and smoke and danger. You cannot imagine the effect on morale of seeing a living man shredded into lumps of dog meat in an instant. Well, we did lose our nerve. Before a single Scot ever reached our gun emplacements, our entire army was running away in terror. The cavalry ran, the gunners ran, the infantry ran, and which of us was running the fastest? Our officers, that's who. Those very aristocrats who led us north seeking fame and glory.
There was no fame and glory, but Alex Leslie stayed true to his words. He did not allow a slaughter. His army could have easily run us down and slaughtered us by the thousands, but he ordered them not to give chase. Most of us escaped that disaster with our weapons and without injury.
Most of us regret the loss of his two hundred as much as we regret the loss of our three hundred, but we do not regret it because we were humiliated. We regret it because the battle should never have happened in the first place, because no king should ever send an army to kill his own people."
Most of the crowd began to cheer, led by Pym. The jeers of the men in front of Daniel were completely swept away by the roar of the mob. John Pym was in his element again. At every lull in the cheers he called out another of his slogans that questioned the competence of the king, or the justness of his taxes. His loudest cheer was when he called out that the king stole funding from the grammar schools so that he could pay an army that should never have been raised in the first place.
Pym was now standing alone at the front of the platform and working his magic with the mob. Daniel ignored the magic and his words, because Pym was now a sitting duck. He pulled back his cloak for a moment just so that the Dirty-cheeks could see his hulking dragon. For the next half hour those dangerous men turned their back on Pym and watch his every move.
Eventually the group gave up any hope of disrupting Pym's rally. The Dirty-cheeks, stout fellows all, formed a phalanx and physically pushed their way through the crowd, with the masters and student of the group swept along in their wake. As the group passed him, the Dirty-cheeks all gave him a hard stare as they marked his face to memory.
They were really not happy with him. Was that because he had ruined their attempt at disrupting this rally, or was that because he, a well armed marksman, had stood right behind them? Some of the students in the group flipped him the finger. One of them called to him, "You are a traitor to your king and to your unit."
Daniel replied with just enough voice to reach the student's ears, "I was at Newbourne. Where were you?"
Another student actually came up to him and challenged him to a duel by saying, "My father was a cavalry officer at Newbourne. You have insulted him. I demand satisfaction." He had that self-satisfied, well-fed look and snotty delivery that Daniel just knew could spell trouble. The student's master and friends tried to pull him away, but he slapped at their hands and would have none of it. The lad obviously spent too much time in the theatre, and had perfected the role of a young cockerel.
Daniel silently and patiently waited for him to give up and go away, but he would not. Now some of the group were turning back into the court to find out what the delay was, including some Dirty-cheeks. That was not good. He sighed and then spoke just loud enough for the lad and his friends to hear him. "Since you have done the challenge then I have the choice of time, place, and weapons. I choose pistols, here and now."
The cockerel visibly blanched as if he would puke. The master grabbed him and tried to pull him away from the suave but dangerous-looking man. The lad squirmed out of his master's grip and stood his ground, though Daniel could see that he was beginning to quake at the knees. He reached under his cloak, pulled out both of his pistols and holding the butts forward towards the student said softly, "Here lad, choose one." Out of the corner of his eye he could see two Dirty-cheeks closing in to stop this nonsense. The lad must have noticed them too, for he pointed to the handle of the dragon.
In a voice now loud enough for the app
roaching Dirty-cheeks to hear, he told the lad, "You have chosen my dragon over my true pistol. A dragon is short range scattergun and useless for dueling. That tells me two things about you. First, that you know absolutely nothing about pistols, and second, that you are either one of the bravest men I have ever met, or a complete fool. Since a fool cannot attend college, I must assume the other.
Hear me, lad. If you are ever looking for a berth on a fighting ship, then look me up. I need men like you, and I will teach you how to fight and how to shoot." The lad looked as if he were about to faint, and not at all like the blustering twit of a moment ago, so Daniel called to one of his mates. "Take your friend out and get him laid. Twice laid. His knob will begin throbbing as soon as he is away from this crowd." With that he spun his guns around and hid them back under his cloak.
One of the Dirty-cheeks grabbed the lad's arm in a grip of steel and towed him through the crowd. Another saluted Daniel with a touch of a finger to his hat. The others in the group followed their friend through the crowd towards the gate. One of the masters shook his hand and said 'thank you!' over and over again before he followed his charges out of the court.
Daniel stared after the retreating group and recognized the formation that the Dirty-cheeks had fallen into. They had been hired as bodyguards. Some student in that group, or perhaps all of them, required a guard to be here today. Or perhaps they had expected their disruption of the rally to trigger a brawl.
One of the men who had been standing close to Pym on the platform was now timidly pulling at Daniel's sleeve. "Captain Daniel, sir. I am Trevor, Mr. Pym's valet. He has sent me to take you to Mr. Cromwell."
"Is it far, 'cause this court and the street outside are completely clogged."
"Not far, sir. Mr. Cromwell is upstairs. Please follow me."
* * * * *
They found Oliver and more than a few of his Cambridge political backers on the second floor of the college. Each man was astraddle a dining room chair to face out a window and observe the rally below. Each man was scribbling away making notes.
"I've been looking for you everywhere,” Daniel scolded his friend from Ely. "Well, at least you are safe enough up here out of that mob."
"Safe enough?" Oliver lifted an eyebrow. "Perhaps, but that is not why we are up here. We are watching the crowd to gauge where our support lies. Which college, which masters, which families, which trades. Deciding who is against us is more difficult. Thank you for that speech you made. It made Pym's task a bit easier."
Thus the purpose of this rally revealed itself to Daniel. Pym was crossing the kingdom holding these rallies, not to raise his own popularity, but to allow each member of his Reform Party to get a clearer picture of how folk felt in his riding. Gauge what were the hot topics, and who reacted to those topics? It was all very clever, which meant that Hampden would be here with Pym.
The innkeep from The George walked towards them and handed a sheaf of papers to Oliver. "Nice hat Dan. It suits you, though I never figured you for one to follow the king's fashions." He waited while Oliver read his scribblings, just in case he had any questions. "I've got to get back to the inn. This thing will be breaking up soon and crowding into my tap room."
"Of course, and thank you for doing this,” Oliver replied with a smile. "Your list of names is much longer than mine. I suppose that remembering names and faces is a must for an innkeeper."
"You should have had Britta here, not me. She knows them all."
Daniel laughed and said. "You should have had Britta standing next to Pym. The crowd would have been purring like kittens rather than hissing like cats. She put me in room six by the way. I must be in her bad books again."
"Not likely, Dan. She's in love with you. Head over heels."
"Don't tell me such things. My life with those four women is complicated enough. Of all men, I am the one man who must never touch her."
"Careful, Dan." the innkeep warned, "remember what the bard said about women scorned."
It was Oliver who was now laughing. "That is exactly why she is in love with you. You are the one man she can allow within her guard without fear. She spends her days slapping away men's hands. With you she doesn't need to be on alert all the time. With you she can relax and show her emotions and her warmth."
"Do us a favour Ollie, get your second son Oliver to marry her."
Oliver’s face went red and he took a few breaths to stop his eyes from welling up. Oliver was no longer his second son, because Robert had died late last year. Died while away at Felsted School. He had suspected foul play but nothing could be proven. Betty was still inconsolable. "Oliver is now my heir, ever since... you know ... Robert. Betty would forbid the match."
"Sorry Ollie,” Daniel put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I forgot for a moment." Now that he had remembered, he understood why Betty had been so weepy in her kitchen. "Did you ever find out..."
"No," Oliver interrupted, "Holbeach, the headmaster, still swears that it was a tragic accident while the boy was alone and fishing. No witnesses to the contrary have ever come forward. What worries me is that last month my Oliver went back to live at the school. I fear he went only to find out what really happened to his brother. I fear he will put himself in danger and I will lose another good son."
"Ollie, if you ever find out who did it,” Daniel whispered. "just tell me and I'll handle it. Whatever happens you must stay far away and in sight of believable witnesses. Under no circumstance must you seek revenge personally."
"I don't need your..."
"Swear to it!" Daniel demanded and pointed to the small bible on the next table. Oliver reached over and touched the bible and mumbled a prayer.
"Uhh, I'm leaving now,” the innkeep announced. "You comin' Dan? I could use your help on the taps."
"Later, I have something for Pym that can't wait." Daniel looked over at where Trevor was polishing the college's brass candlesticks with his white hanky. A force of habit after decades in service. "Trevor. The next time that Mr. Pym takes a break, could you bring him up here to us?"
"My pleasure sir,” he bowed and danced off, happy to be busy with another assigned task.
* * * * *
John Pym politely asked Trevor to leave the room, close the door, and prevent interruptions. Once the door was shut he asked, "Is this letter in General Leslie's own hand? I ask only to determine how private its contents are."
"There was no one with us when he wrote it," Daniel replied. "He read it back to me in a whisper and then he sealed it. I handed it to you with the seal intact."
Since Daniel already knew its contents, and he was Oliver's man, Pym passed it to Oliver to read. Daniel would tell him anyway. He watched while Oliver read it twice in disbelief.
Daniel explained. "Alex doesn't trust the Scottish nobility who rule parliament. He calls them the 'oligarchs-in-waiting', by which he means that they are false republicans. They wish to strip Charlie of many of his Scottish powers so that they can assume those powers for themselves."
"Hrumph,” said Oliver. "Sounds like our own House of Lords. The Earl of Warwick, for instance."
"Alex fears that during treaty negotiations, the king will buy his lords off with estates and honors and titles. He told me that throughout the history of Scottish rebellions all the way back to when the Normans stole the English throne, this is how the rebellions ended. Not this time. Alex can't be bought off, and his army will stand by him no matter what orders the Lords of Parliament issue.
I have seen Leslie offer terms before. They are usually so few and so simple that they seem obvious and trivial, and are immediately accepted by the other side. Alex Leslie is canny, Alex is, and there is always much more to his simple terms if you think about them. Much, much more. This time he will demand only three simple terms, and they are non negotiable, no matter what else his lords give up in their bargaining with Charlie.
First, there will be no shipments of coal from the Tyne to London until a treaty is enacted.
S
econd, the king must pay the daily expenses of the Scottish army so long as they are in England, so that they are not forced to steal from the English. He estimates that at some 800 pounds a day.
Third, that the treaty must be approved by the English parliament."
Pym walked slowly back and forth in deep thought. Then he looked up and smiled and said. "I see what you mean about Leslie's simple terms. Each one hides a sharp blade. With winter approaching, all of London will pressure the king to keep negotiations short. Charlie doesn't have the funds to pay his own army, never mind Leslie's. Any delay will turn London against him, the coal miners against him, the farmers of Northumbria against him, and his own army against him. They leave our king with no bargaining position at all.
But that last term - oh what a genius Leslie is! The king will be forced to call parliament into session again, and this time he cannot prorogue it until we approve of the treaty. Any delay will cost him dearly, and us nothing at all, so we will be able to force him to sign almost anything into law. The onus will be on him to ram them through the House of Lords so he can use the Great Seal on them. I would say that the cursed rebel general, Alex Leslie, is the best friend that England has."
"That is what I was trying to tell the mob,” Daniel pointed out. "Do you think the news about blocking the coal has reached London yet? Could you make sure of it?"
"Good point. Why not put pressure on Charlie immediately? I will send a letter to my pamphleteers on tonight's London coach."
This was sweet music to Daniel's ears. Peterson's collier would not reach London's coal docks for another two days. By the time the cargo came up for auction, the price of coal will be through the roof. He felt like dancing a jig, but instead he said in a serious tone, "There is more for your ears, John."
"Then tell it. Is it more good news? Better news I cannot imagine."
