by Tessa Harris
Lupton toyed with the knife on his breakfast plate. “I know that there are killers on the loose in Brandwick. I know that a surveyor in this estate’s employ has been murdered by a gang of barbarous woodsmen who may strike at any time. The men of the Fifty-second are here for the villagers’ protection.”
Thomas leaned forward and planted both hands firmly on the table. “You do realize that the common is like a powder keg? One spark from these soldiers is all that is needed and it will ignite.” He stormed across the room and pointed through the window toward the village. “If men and women are injured today, their blood will be on your hands.”
Lupton shook his head. “The villagers’ fate is in their own hands,” he countered. “Either they follow Adam Diggott and his cronies and face the consequences, or obey Sir Montagu. The choice is a simple one.”
Thomas shot the steward an uneasy look. “You know something, don’t you?”
Lupton shrugged. “As you are aware, Sir Montagu’s spies are everywhere, Silkstone. Of course we know that Diggott and his miscreants are planning mayhem.”
Thomas suddenly felt his chest tighten. “So that is why you called in the army.”
“A company cannot be called out on a whim,” came the glib reply.
Thomas wheeled ’round in desperation and walked back to the window. “But the troops have muskets. You know there could be a massacre.”
Lupton snorted. “Just be thankful Sir Montagu did not call in the cavalry!” His unbridled arrogance had never been more evident to Thomas.
Thomas turned back, exasperated. “And what of the villagers’ ancient rights? The rights they have enjoyed for hundreds of years. Do they count as naught?”
Lupton suddenly let out a derisory laugh. “Ancient rights? An American lectures an Englishman on ancient rights?” He slapped the table. “Sir Montagu looks forward, not backward, Silkstone. Surely you don’t think he intends to stop at enclosure?”
Thomas frowned. “What do you mean?”
The steward shrugged. “Enclosure is merely the first step.”
“The first step before what?”
Lupton rose from the table. “Come, I will show you something,” he said, leading the way out of the morning room, across the hall, and into the study.
Under the window had been placed a long table, and on it, secured at all four corners by paperweights, was a large piece of vellum. It measured at least a man’s height in length. Thomas peered over it.
“A map of Oxfordshire?” he queried.
Lupton shook his head. “Not just Oxfordshire, but Northamptonshire, too.”
Thomas looked again, focusing at the top of the map. There were names that were vaguely familiar to him, Banbury and Bicester. He saw Draycott House was clearly marked, too. He let his eyes wander west to Oxford, and then it dawned on him. He suddenly realized what he was seeing. A thick blue line ran from the River Cherwell in the north to join with the River Thames in the east.
“But these are plans for a . . . for a canal.”
“Bravo, Silkstone! A canal that would link Banbury to Oxford. Such a route will open up huge commercial possibilities and—”
Thomas interrupted. “Hold, sir! You speak as if this is a fait accompli.”
Lupton smiled. “That’s because it is. There are several financial backers on board, and the act will go through Parliament in the next few weeks.”
Thomas balked for a moment as he digested the information. “So Malthus intends to not only enclose Boughton, but build a canal through Brandwick, too?” he asked incredulously.
Lupton patted the map. “Precisely. Wharves will be erected and factories built.”
“And what of the people of Brandwick? This is their future.”
Lupton tilted his head and looked at Thomas oddly. “They will work in the factories, of course. They will leave the land and man the machines, just as they are doing in the north and the Midlands.”
Thomas knew Lupton was referring to the new mills that were being built in Lancashire. The fulling mill would soon be replaced, if Malthus had his way, with one of Richard Arkwright’s power mills, which were springing up all the way from Manchester to Scotland. Arsonists had set fire to one of his ventures at Chorley not five years before, and Thomas could imagine exactly the same resentment simmering in Brandwick. Children as young as six would be forced to work in the mills with long hours and low pay. The canal would cut a great swathe through the heart of the Boughton Estate, changing the landscape forever. Trees would be felled in their thousands to be replaced by factory chimneys, the sides of the meandering river would be straightened to make a canal, hillsides would be tunneled out, the tenter lines would give way to steam looms.
“And you expect them to accept this, this transformation, without any consultation?”
Lupton shook his head. “Consultation can only lead to compromise,” he replied. “And that is not a word in Sir Montagu’s vocabulary.”
Thomas felt indignant on behalf of the villagers. “You are pushing good people too far,” he warned, shaking his finger in the air.
Lupton simply smirked. “It is merely progress, Silkstone. Just as you and your ilk make advances in medicine, so must landowners make advances in the countryside.”
Thomas arched a brow. “The difference is we do it for the benefit of mankind and you do it for your own,” he replied.
At that moment there was a knock on the door and Howard appeared to address Lupton.
“There is a Captain Ponsonby to see you, sir,” he announced.
“Ah yes, do show him in. Dr. Silkstone was just about to leave,” said the steward with a leer.
A fresh-faced young soldier stood by the threshold. Thomas looked at the officer, then at Lupton, and nodded. “Indeed, I must warn the people of Brandwick they are walking into a trap,” he muttered. Only Lupton heard.
Chapter 46
Thomas knew that he had to act fast if bloodshed was to be avoided. As he rode away from Boughton he glanced back and saw smoke from the campfires rising over the ridge. He caught sight of the company of men being put through their paces in a field not far from the hall. He spurred on his horse and shortly arrived back in the village. There were few people about; it seemed that most had obeyed the order and retreated to their homes. Thomas was puzzled, however, to see that Walter Harker’s window was opened wide onto the street. Thinking that the constable would be on duty at such a time, he decided to call on him. Knocking at the front door, he was answered with a long, low mumble and entered to find Harker seated by his hearth, downing a quart pot of gin.
“Mr. Harker, you have heard some villagers plan to beat the bounds?” Thomas thought it odd that the village constable should not be policing his patch.
Hearing the anatomist’s words, Harker lifted his blurry gaze. “They need to do what they need to do,” he mumbled.
Thomas smelled the strong liquor on the constable’s breath and looked into his bloodshot eyes. He realized he was too far in his cups to be of any use. Walter Harker was washing away his duty in gin. Thomas bent low and pawed at his sleeve.
“Where is Adam Diggott?”
The constable grunted and supped more gin.
“You know he is planning something and that Sir Montagu has laid a trap.”
“I can’t change nothing,” Harker groaned, shaking his head. The drink had reduced him to a quivering mass, robbing him of his pride and dignity. There was a time, not so long ago, when Thomas knew he could rely on Walter Harker in a difficult situation. Now, however, he realized he would have to act alone.
Riding to the edge of the village, to the Diggott cottage, Thomas found Abe asleep in a chair. He was alone. Gently he put his hand on his shoulder to wake him.
The old man’s eyes flew open, swimming in their sockets. A moment later they were focusing on Thomas. “Dr. Silkstone?” he croaked.
“Yes, Abe. Do you know where Adam is?”
Diggott gave a qualified nod, but no more.
“Is he at the beating?”
“I’m not to tell no one,” came the reply.
Thomas took a deep breath and explained. “I believe Adam and his friends are in grave danger. Sir Montagu knows they want to tear down the fences, and the troops will be under orders to fire.” Kneeling beside him, he touched the old man’s arm. “Do you understand?”
Abe grunted. Despite the faraway look in his tired eyes, he seemed a little more lucid. “The redcoats would shoot them?”
“I fear so. I must speak with them and warn them,” replied Thomas, his voice becoming more urgent.
The old man nodded. “He went to the common, him and Zeb Godson and the others. You’re right, they’ll have them fences down, but I don’t know how they plan to do it.”
Thomas rocked back on his heels and rose. “I shall find them,” he said. “But if you see them before I do, tell them their lives are in danger.”
Adam Diggott was among friends. He knew that, but he also knew that in these straitened times, even those he counted as good friends might betray him to the authorities for a shilling or two. It was a risk he had to take, but so as not to make himself obvious, he took to wearing a disguise as he went about spreading word. Dressed as a peddler, his large-brimmed hat still pulled low, he was hawking his wares among the few souls who had gathered by the common and revealing himself to those he knew he could trust.
Zeb Godson, Josh Thornley, and Will Ketch did not have to adopt such drastic measures. There was no price on their heads, but still they had to be guarded. Hands were cupped over mouths, voices were low, gazes direct. The plan was simple. That afternoon those villagers and commoners brave enough to defy the law and practice their ancient custom would gather on the main road to Oxford near Arthur’s Hollow. The natural amphitheater on the common was the only ground that was still accessible. The rest had been fenced off over the previous few days. There they would sing a song and begin to process up the slope toward the line of stark wooden posts that barred their way to the top of the hill. As the villagers’ chants came to a crescendo, the dissenters would quickly make their way to the fencing and begin tearing it down with axes and mallets that had been set aside. Posts and gates would be flattened before the troops got wind of the destruction, and the perpetrators would melt away just as surely as they had appeared. That was the scheme that had been conceived, and Adam Diggott and his cohorts had been gathering surreptitious support for it all day. Mingling among their neighbors, men and women of like minds, cottagers and woodsmen, country folk with the Brandwick soil in their bones and the water of the bournes of the Chilterns in their veins, it had not been hard to persuade them of their cause. They’d been born to their rights to common land, and by God, they’d die for them.
Just before St. Swithin’s clock struck one, a crowd began to gather. What had begun as a handful of stalwart dissenters was swelling all the time. Emboldened by the gathering of a few, more and more villagers took to the common, so that by the time the clock struck two, upward of one hundred people had massed. With not a redcoat in sight, there was a carnival atmosphere. Girls wore flowers in their hair or carried posies. Others fixed ribbons to sticks and waved them like wands.
Thomas snaked his way through the crowd, looking for Adam Diggott. It was his broad frame and tall stature that gave him away.
“Thank God I have found you,” said the doctor, unable to hide his relief.
“Dr. Silkstone.” The coppicer’s expression remained serious and aloof.
Thomas frowned. “I am come to beg you, and anyone else for that matter who is rash enough to pull a prank, think again.” The doctor laid his hand on Adam’s arm and spoke with a fearful intensity, but he was quickly rebuffed.
“I know the redcoats are at Boughton, if that’s what you mean, sir,” came Diggott’s reply. It was as if the soldiers posed no more of a threat to the procession than troublesome flies. He turned away.
Thomas tried to reason with him and tugged at his jacket, so that he turned to face him once more. “Eighty men, many armed with muskets,” he cried. “Are these people’s lives worth the price of a few fence posts?”
Adam narrowed his eyes and, without warning, pulled away from Thomas. Climbing onto a stile nearby, he addressed the crowd.
“Good people of Brandwick,” he shouted above the din. “Good people of Brandwick,” he cried, louder this time. The chatter fell silent. All eyes turned to him. “Are we ready to make a stand?”
“Aye!” came the universal shout. They were united against enclosure, but the mood was excitable rather than angry.
“Then let us sing!” cried Adam Diggott. He cast a triumphant look at Thomas before signaling to the drummers and fiddlers to strike up their rendition of “Hey Down, Derry Down.”
Meanwhile from his vantage point on a hill near Boughton Hall, Captain Samuel Ponsonby of the Oxfordshire Regiment was surveying the scene with his telescope. At his order his men began falling in. The crowd had gathered near the new boundary. They had riotous intentions. The law of the land had been broken. It was up to him and his men to enforce it. Within a few minutes a second order was given to move out. The troops were on the march, their mission to protect the lines of newly erected fencing, whatever it took. Just as the first song came to an end, the crowd started moving up the slope.
Hal Thornley, who’d been given the job of watching for the soldiers, brought word. “They’re on their way!” he panted.
“Let’s see where they station themselves,” replied Adam, leading the crowd. “They’ll expect us to go for the fencing on the ridge.” He jerked his head toward the line that lay in front of them.
“Yes.” Zeb nodded.
“But we won’t,” countered Adam.
“We won’t?” queried Will, Bess trotting by his side.
Adam shook his head. “We’ll surprise ’em by taking down the fencing that skirts Raven’s Wood. ’Tis where they’ll least expect it. There’s a good half mile we can get our teeth into there. We’ll have it all down afore they know it.”
Zeb and Will nodded in unison. “ ’Tis a good plan,” said Josh Thornley. “Let’s spread the word.”
And so it was that, while most of the villagers made their way up to the fencing on the ridge, another three dozen or so broke off from the main group. The majority of the dissenters clapped in time to music as they ascended the slope, causing a distraction for the others, who broke off, willy-nilly, heading west toward Raven’s Wood.
Meanwhile Thomas had stationed himself on a ridge to the east of the action so he could see any troops approaching before the villagers below. It was not long before he, too, saw them, and he watched their arrival with trepidation. They spread out and stationed themselves around the perimeter of the common, as if corralling the villagers like sheep that could be penned in and shepherded at their will. But these man-made barriers, these soldiers, were well spaced out, with at least twenty yards between sentries.
Keeping himself distant from the main body of the crowd, Thomas walked up the slope toward the long line of fencing that marked the newly claimed Boughton land. Stopping by a broad oak, he looked back down toward the hollow. Taking out his spyglass he could see that a group of maids, all wearing their long white May robes, had formed themselves into a ring. A fiddler struck up, and in time to the music, the circle began to configure itself. Threading through one another and forming into circles and shapes, the girls moved in unison, bobbing and skipping like young puppies at play. They were obviously meant to distract the soldiers, and turning his glass on the redcoats on the ridge, Thomas could see that they were doing an excellent job. Perhaps, he thought, the protest—for that was what it was, a protest dressed up as an ancient tradition—would pass off without incident. Perhaps a shot would not be fired. Perhaps he had worried unnecessarily.
Suddenly a voice came from behind. “A fine sight, eh, Dr. Silkstone?”
Thomas turned to see old Maggie Cuthbert standing beside him, looking down at
the dancers. “The Uffington Horse,” she said.
Thomas looked at her quizzically.
“The dance,” she explained. “ ’Tis named after the great white horse on the downs.”
“Ah,” replied Thomas with a nod. He thought of the enigmatic creature cut into the chalk hillside a few miles away.
The old crone smiled. “’Tis said that when King Arthur awakes, the horse will rise up and dance on nearby Dragon Hill,” she chuckled.
Thomas tilted his head. “And what will wake King Arthur?” he asked.
Maggie Cuthbert pursed her lips as she surveyed the dancers, then turned to him and said with the utmost conviction: “If England is in peril.”
Chapter 47
Lydia studied her father across the dining table. She watched his jaw move slowly up and down as he chewed each mouthful of food assiduously. His long fingers, like talons, grasped the stem of his wineglass before he washed down his dinner with a good vintage. She had seen him eat before, of course. He had been a regular guest at the Crick family table during her childhood, conversing easily, holding sway and charming with his wit and repartee. She had respected him then, before she had known the secret that he kept with her mother. Those little asides she had seen them share; those trifling moments when one had brushed up against the other, thinking no one else had seen. They had all seemed so innocent to her and quite beguiling at the time. And now she knew the truth. The late afternoon sun that filtered weakly through the casement began to throw her newfound father’s face into sharp relief, and the shadows started to play tricks on her eyes—elongating his nose, highlighting his cheekbones, turning the unremarkable into the striking. His whole countenance changed as the light altered, and it troubled her that the same man could appear so very different; that the person she had known, and feared, could take on the mantle of her protector and yet still cause an unsettling doubt in her mind.
