by Stella Riley
‘Come in, then,’ said Nancy briskly. And, as Abigail shook her head and tried to escape, ‘Oh come on! It won’t take a minute and I’ll see you get away all right. I want to ask a favour.’
‘Of me?’ Abigail gazed timidly around Nancy’s front parlour and was surprised to find it much like any other. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Well, you help in the shop, don’t you? And there must be times when old long-nose ain’t there? So I wondered if you couldn’t buy twenty yards of cambric for me and drop it in here when next you’re passing.’ Nancy paused. ‘I know I’ve got a cheek asking – but me and the girls need new shifts and shifts is important in our line of work, see?’
Abigail coloured a little. ‘Oh. Yes.’
‘I don’t want to get you into trouble, though. That wouldn’t be right.’ She smiled wryly. ‘Like I said, I got no business asking and it ain’t as though I know you or anything. But I had a feeling you wouldn’t mind talking to a whore – and you can always say no. I reckon I’ll understand. Old long-nose your brother, is he?’
‘Yes.’ Completely out of her depth, something prompted Abigail to add, ‘I’m sorry for the way he spoke to you.’
Nancy grinned. ‘Don’t worry about that. I’m used to it. But I appreciate your saying it. There’s not many who’d bother – and I shan’t forget. Now. I mustn’t keep you, so just say whether you think you can help me or not.’
Abigail smiled shyly into the warm, brown eyes and drew a long breath.
‘Yes. I think I can. I’ll try.’
*
A few days later, on August 22nd, violence erupted in the town when Parliamentary forces tried to establish outposts in the suburbs. They were beaten back by troops from the Castle but for several hours the streets rang with booted feet, shouted commands and the rattle of musket-fire. Like everyone else, Jonas barred his family in behind shutters and locked doors and, by midday, he had decided to send his wife and mother to the comparative peace of his sister Ruth’s house at Grimsbury.
‘And what about Abby?’ asked Samuel, indignantly. ‘Isn’t she to go as well?’
‘How can she?’ replied Jonas coldly. ‘Someone has to run the house – and I imagine you will expect to be fed?’
‘There’s no need for Abigail to leave,’ added Rachel. ‘She will be perfectly safe with the two of you. Indeed, I am only going myself because of my condition.’
Samuel eyed her sarcastically, opened his mouth to argue and then closed it again as Abigail kicked him beneath the table.
‘I’m glad I’m not going,’ she told him later. ‘Just the thought of living with Rachel and Ruth for goodness knows how many weeks is enough to give me an ague. But I’m sorry for Mother. She won’t enjoy it either.’
Rachel and Alice left for Grimsbury the next day, escorted by Jonas – and Abigail seized the opportunity to run up to Sugarford Bar with Nancy Lucas’ cambric. She found the neat parlour full of baggage and Nancy herself up to her ears in packing.
‘I’m taking the girls up to the Castle,’ she explained. ‘Once the Roundheads get into the town, our lives won’t be worth a docken. Your brother and his Praise-God friends will see to that. So I asked Justin Ambrose to get permission for the four of us to move in with the garrison till it’s over – and I don’t reckon we’ve got long.’
‘Captain Ambrose?’ asked Abigail, surprised. ‘Oh. Do you know him well?’
‘As well as he lets anybody know him. But he’s got a good heart, that one.’ Nancy paused in her labours and, pressing the money she owed into Abigail’s hand, said warmly, ‘Thanks for helping out with the stuff, love. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just ask. And don’t let your miserable old bugger of a brother get you down. He ain’t worth it.’
*
Just before dawn on the morning of Sunday August 25th, Nancy’s suspicions were made a reality when two companies of Parliamentary Foot entered the town and quietly took possession of St Mary’s church. The first the Radford household knew of it was when it was awoken by a party of troopers wishing to search for billeted Cavaliers. Majestically robed in his nightshirt, Jonas joyfully threw his doors wide and made his guests welcome with cherry cordial.
It was the house-to-house search rather than the seizure of the church which resulted in a belated alarm being raised in the Castle and, by that time, the Parliamentary cavalry had come up to join the advance infantrymen. Then Thursday’s events were repeated in greater magnitude as the garrison sallied forth in force and took up positions in gardens and outhouses all about the town.
Abigail attended to breakfast with shaking fingers and smashed three eggs on the kitchen floor when a stray shot tore through one of the upstairs windows. She helped Betty prepare the vegetables for dinner and cut her hand along with the turnips when the small pieces of Parliamentary artillery in the church tower opened fire on the Castle. And, by mid-afternoon, when Samuel came in, full of eager excitement, her nerves were vibrating like plucked wires.
‘The garrison cavalry drove ours to the edge of the town,’ he told her cheerfully. ‘But it won’t do them any good because they can’t hold a position without infantry and that’s been pushed back inside the Castle. Twice.’
‘Oh?’ Abigail sank wearily on to the settle. ‘Then why is there still fighting in the streets?’
‘Well, naturally the Cavaliers are trying to regain their hold on the town. They have to. It’s only common-sense. But they’ll never do it. There aren’t enough of them. Colonel Whetham has just arrived from Warwick.’
‘Good,’ said Abigail. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Commander-in-Chief of the Parliament’s artillery-train,’ replied Samuel, grinning. ‘He’s brought three companies of Foot, a cannon-royal and a murdering piece.’
His sister stared at him for a moment without speaking. Then, with irony, she said, ‘Wonderful. That’s all we need, isn’t it?’
*
First light on Monday morning found the Royalist garrison tired, irritable and securely besieged from without. Sir William Compton and Colonel Greene waxed contrapuntally articulate on the subject of unobservant sentries before placing four troopers under arrest and then gave orders for continuous cannon and musket fire to prevent the enemy digging breastworks and siting their guns. It was uphill work but the afternoon brought a diversion in the form of an impromptu cattle-drive after two beasts in the Castle pasture were shot. It increased the population of the outer ward by seven cows, five sheep and a goat … and it raised a cheer from each of Will Compton’s three hundred and twenty men.
Tuesday the 27th dawned hazy with the promise of heat. Busy with a stream of tasks, Justin found himself appraising their defences in a way he had never troubled to do before.
Some three hundred years old and concentric in design, the Castle occupied a large area. Its outer defences consisted of a moat fed by the Cuttle Brook and an earth mound lying parallel to it, inside which ran the seven-foot-thick curtain wall. This, unfortunately, did not follow the line of the moat but, at intervals, it was studded with towers and equipped to the north and south with twin, square-fronted gatehouses. Against the inside of the wall, the garrison had banked up earth – thus enlarging the wet ditch that surrounded the quadrangular, four-storey building of the inner court.
All in all, it looked as good as any other English fortress of its age and type; until, that was, one noticed the places where the stone had crumbled and never been repaired. Then it suddenly became what it was. A dubious, even flimsy defence against the engines of modern warfare; and containing stocks of food that, even with rationing, would last little more than a month.
Justin was assisting Hugh Vaughan with recalcitrant firing mechanism of a saker when he heard the unmistakable sounds of arrival in the rebel camp and, stopping work, looked down on a well-drilled troop of Horse. At the head of the column, an unmarked rectangle of silk proclaimed the presence of a full Colonel; and, echoing its azure brilliance, a great silver-fringed banner bore the l
egend Exurgat et Dissipa Buntur.
‘Hugh – whose colours are those?’
Captain Vaughan peered abstractedly between the machicolations and then straightened quickly.
‘The honourable member for Oxfordshire. Well, well … he’s taken his time, hasn’t he?’ And then, in response to Justin’s patient stare, ‘It’s Lord Saye and Sele’s son, John Fiennes.’
‘Ah.’ A faint smile touched the hard mouth. ‘I met his brother Nathaniel once. When he surrendered Bristol to Rupert.’
‘Yes? Well, this one’s better. What he lacks in flair, he makes good with haste and sheer, bloody persistence. That motto of his is more than just words.’
Justin looked again at the banner. ‘Latin was never my strong point. Arise and … what?’
‘Scatter. It means Arise and Scatter. It also means that, if he’s got command, we’re in for an interesting time – and sooner than we expected, too.’
This prophecy was fulfilled within two hours when the rebel drums beat out the chamade and a blue-sleeved Trumpet rode slowly up to the south gate, accompanied by a cornet bearing a white flag. The Castle, bristling with a discreet show of force, was ready for him. In rigid silence and with the utmost formality, the Trumpet was conducted to the Governor’s quarters where Sir William sat in state, flanked by Colonel Greene and Captains Vaughan, Ambrose and Walrond. All four had removed every trace of the morning’s toil from their appearance and were garbed with temporary splendour.
The envoy, a pink-faced gentleman in his early twenties, cleared his throat and began.
‘Colonel Fiennes presents his compliments to Sir William and suggests that, before hostilities are commenced in earnest, it may be possible to reach an accommodation for the preservation of life. He therefore seeks that you will look upon the forces ranged against you and determine the wisdom of ceding the Castle for the use of the Parliament. In return for this, Colonel Fiennes will issue passes and permit you to march out with all the honours of war.’
‘Now that is generous of him,’ murmured Will. ‘The full honours of war, no less. Very generous indeed – especially as we won’t have earned them.’
A glint of appreciation warmed Captain Ambrose’s eyes but he remained ramrod-straight and even resisted the temptation to glance at Hugh Vaughan. The envoy, meanwhile, was attempting to continue.
‘The Colonel further empowers me to —’
‘I think,’ said Sir William, coming abruptly to his feet, ‘that we have heard enough. You may thank Colonel Fiennes for his courtesy but tell him that we hold this place in trust for His Majesty and, while there is one man left alive within it, he need not expect to have it delivered to him. And, in case you find trouble in remembering that, you may give the Colonel this letter. Captain Ambrose – escort this officer from the Castle. Captain Vaughan – I believe you have your orders?’
Walking beside Justin to the gate, the Trumpet said good-humouredly, ‘Ah well. So much for the preliminaries. Now we can get on with the action. I don’t suppose you could recommend a decent billet, could you?’
Laughter stirred in the grey eyes.
‘No. I couldn’t. And we’ve got all the whores.’
‘Well, of course,’ grinned the envoy. ‘But we have all the daughters of Banbury.’
‘You’re welcome to them,’ replied Justin, his hand on the gate. ‘Goodbye.’
The Trumpet was half-way back to his own ranks when Hugh applied a match to his favourite culverin. Then the air was rent by a single, throaty roar as Singing Jenny bellowed out the Castle’s defiance to the enemy at her gates.
*
Colonel Fiennes heard it and, wasting no more time, opened a heavy cannonade which continued till dusk and began again at dawn the next day. The garrison answered in kind but, before night brought temporary respite, a hole some four yards square was already apparent in the west wall.
Few in the Castle slept that night – the men because repair work had to be done hastily under cover of darkness and the officers because they were in council. It had taken Captain Ambrose’s field experience to identify the latest Parliamentary reinforcements as Colonel Boswell’s regiment of Foot and Colonel Purefoy’s Horse; but three of the six pieces of ordnance that accompanied them needed introduction to no one. Capable of firing a hundred-pound stone, a fireball or the explosive device known as a grenado, mortars could batter walls, blow up buildings or fire towns. One would have been a problem; three could spell catastrophe.
However, due to skilful garrison marksmanship, the rebels were still trying to plant these new pieces on Friday and, by then, their determination was so great that Captain Ambrose had scant difficulty in slipping out with twenty men to fire the houses on the north side of the market-place.
It was an order that Will Compton had been extremely reluctant to give but the houses stood too close for comfort and so it was only prudent to remove them. They were already deserted, of course – for even the most obstinate citizen had seen the folly of inhabiting no-man’s land once the siege became active. Although he knew this, Justin still conducted a swift, thorough search before fulfilling his mission.
He found the spaniel pup, a shivering bundle of liver and white fur, in a corner of the corn chandler’s scullery and scooped it up with scarcely a glance or second thought. Then, when the floors were lightly dusted with gunpowder and the fuses laid and lit, he led his fellows smartly back to the Castle with the dog tucked snugly into the breast of his coat.
He was on the ramparts observing the fruits of his night’s work as the flames took hold below when Ned Frost materialised at his side and expressed the hope that the wriggling bulge in his friend’s coat was a chicken.
Justin grinned and, with the air of a travelling conjurer, produced his trophy.
‘I think I’ll call him Hallelujah-that-Perdition-hath-not-taken-thee,’ he shouted over the din of reciprocal cannon-fire. ‘What do you think?’
‘That I’m damned if we want any Roundhead curs in this castle,’ retorted Ned. ‘And the name’s bigger than the animal.’
‘True.’ Justin examined the pup with absent interest. ‘Very well, then. We’ll rear him to know his duty and call him Rex. Better?’
‘Much. Where are you going now?’
‘To charm Nancy into milking the goat. Even a mascot has to be fed, you know.’
*
At a little after midday on the following afternoon, the first of Colonel Fiennes’ mortars came into play and its chosen missile was the most destructive it had to offer – the grenado. The first great powder-packed shell whizzed harmlessly over the Castle to explode in an eruption of earth on the near bank of the Cherwell. After ten, breathlessly active minutes on the ramparts, Hugh Vaughan bethought himself of other measures and flew down the steps to collide violently with Justin at the base of the west turret.
‘Fire-hooks and buckets!’ he yelled. ‘If the next one hits, it could —’
‘I know.’ Justin gestured curtly to where his troopers were already drenching the thatch of the outbuildings. ‘But I’ll wager a bottle of claret that the next one is —’ His words were drowned by a whining crescendo that culminated in a deafening, earth-shaking blast. ‘Short,’ he finished imperturbably. ‘The bastards are quick, aren’t they?’
Hugh swore and dashed back the way he had come.
Fired less precipitately, the next grenado dropped neatly into the outer ward, ploughing up the ground, setting light to the stables and injuring three of Justin’s men. Watching the surgeon shake his head over a lad of no more than nineteen, Justin felt the familiar clawing of nausea. To lead was to kill; a simple fact that one tried to get used to – only to find that, at best, all one learned was control.
The mortar spoke twice more before dark. One shot fell wide, the other deprived the castle of its master-gunner – killed agonisingly by flying splinters of shattered stone. Captain Vaughan, grazed, scratched and bloodied by the same explosion but otherwise miraculously whole, knelt unmoving b
eside his sergeant until the man died and then returned to his duty with white-faced savagery.
Night fell but not peace as the rebels continued to site the rest of their artillery by torchlight. Inside the Castle, fatigue was beginning to take its toll for many of the men had scarcely seen their beds for a week. Most of the officers had not seen them at all but snatched a few minutes’ rest when and where they could. That night, they were again called to a Council of War.
After reports on damage, casualties and provisions had been dealt with, Colonel Greene said, ‘You all know the situation. The west wall is already badly damaged and the enemy have a large artillery-train along with something in excess of fifteen hundred men. We might hold out a day or a month but, since this is one fortress His Majesty can’t afford to lose, Sir William and I would prefer to minimise the risk by summoning help.’
‘From where?’ asked Justin. ‘With the King’s army in the West, Oxford won’t have any troops to spare.’
‘No.’ Anthony Greene turned a quill thoughtfully between his fingers. ‘So we must gamble on the hope that Rupert is still at Shrewsbury. Gentlemen, I’d like your recommendations on who to send. Two men with courage, discretion and reasonable knowledge of the country in question.’
At an hour before dawn, two shadowy figures stripped of their hose and shoes and each bearing one half of a letter to Prince Rupert, slipped quietly over the curtain wall and disappeared into the gloom. A little later, the rosy glow of daybreak revealed two more Parliamentary cannon firmly planted and in working order. Then the brief tranquillity was over and the air became heavy with smoke, dust and a cacophony of noise.
Shortly after noon, a grenado blasted its way into the Castle precincts, firing the old mansion house and killing one of the few women. The others set up an immediate clamour to be let out.
‘Let out? Let out?’ screeched Nancy Lucas, over the din of the booming cannon and wailing females. ‘Why, you lily-livered puddings, I’ll give you let out! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!’
‘For what?’ yelled back one common-law wife hysterically. ‘For not wanting to end up fried like poor Sal?’
