by Stella Riley
‘It’s all right’ Somehow Abigail reached the door and clutched Rob Woodley’s arm. ‘I was just leaving.’
He drew her outside, his plain countenance marked by a frown.
‘What’s the matter? You’re as white as a sheet. Are you unwell?’ And, moving as though to take her back into the house, ‘I think you ought to sit down for a moment.’
‘No!’ She almost shouted the word, careless of what anyone thought. ‘I want to go home.’
Rob stared at her. ‘All right. Is that your cart?’
She nodded.
‘Good. Come on, then.’ He crossed the yard with her and helped her up on to the seat. ‘Now wait there. I’ll just have a word with the smith about these firing pins and then I’ll take you back.’
‘Yes.’ She fumbled with her purse. ‘Give him that. The money for the vegetables.’
Five minutes later, with his horse tied to the back of the cart, Rob was driving them both back to town.
‘Now,’ he said calmly. ‘What was all that about? You looked scared to death.’
‘Did I?’ Beginning to recover herself, Abigail managed a tiny shrug. ‘How silly. I just felt a little faint. The kitchen was so stuffy, you see and —’
‘Liar,’ he said placidly. ‘You’ve never been so glad to see anyone as you were to see me just then – and I’m not vain enough to suppose it was personal. But if you don’t want to explain, that’s your business.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Abigail. ‘It is. And I don’t.’
*
By the following Wednesday it was clear that the Cavaliers were indeed running short of gunpowder and rumour also held them cowed by sheer force of numbers and dogged by the virulent new fever. Morale in the besieging forces therefore ran correspondingly high – only to be dashed when, after investing the Castle on three sides, they were beaten back by a garrison sally. By then, Colonel Fiennes was also low on powder and, despite being now in command of some three and a half thousand men, he considered his infantry inadequate for the task in hand. He sent requesting Lord Manchester to repair these deficiencies but was not even remotely surprised when all that arrived were five hundred dragoons – and those from Lieutenant-General Cromwell.
Colonel Fiennes was not entirely disappointed. Dragoons were accustomed to serving as infantry and would probably do well enough; but the identity of the Lieutenant-Colonel commanding them produced a number of mixed emotions for his name was one known the length and breadth of England. The man ought to be an asset, mused John Fiennes dubiously. He had been a popular Puritan hero ever since he’d been pilloried for distributing anti-episcopal pamphlets. Yet, a niggling worry gnawed at the Colonel’s mind and suggested the wisdom of keeping this new officer under his eye.
When approached to extend his hospitality, Jonas’ reply was immediate and affirmative – but his response to the suggestion that his sister should also be consulted was one of blank surprise.
‘There is no need for that, Colonel. Abigail knows her duty and will be happy to assist in any way she can.’
‘Even so,’ said the Colonel quietly. ‘I think we will do her the courtesy to ask. Will you be so good as to call her?’
Abigail entered the room reluctantly for, though Jonas had said nothing save that her presence was required, his expression boded no good. The simply-phrased request, therefore, took her completely unawares.
‘Well, Abigail?’ prompted Jonas sharply. ‘The Colonel is waiting.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. Of course we have room, sir. And, naturally, the gentleman is welcome to lodge here.’
‘Thank you.’ John Fiennes inclined his head gravely. ‘When the Lieutenant-Colonel sees how well you look after us, I am sure he will be as grateful to you as I am. But I feel I must point out to you both that this is no ordinary officer you will be taking in for he is possessed of a certain notoriety. In short, he is John Lilburne.’
‘Lilburne?’ echoed Jonas. ‘Free-born John?’
‘The same.’
Jonas’ eyes glowed.
‘My house will be honoured. The victory is now surely ours for God has sent us a sign.’
‘God has sent us a firebrand,’ corrected the Colonel dryly. And then, half to himself, ‘I only hope He will also help me to control it.’
Abigail met their new guest for the first time at dinner that evening and was quick to notice that Samuel already appeared enslaved. They had both expected the renowned Mr Lilburne to resemble Jonas – in which they had been completely wrong. Free-born John was no cold and gloomy pontificator. He was elegantly dressed, bursting with animated, joy-filled humanity and less than thirty years old. Abigail met a wide, intelligent gaze, was greeted warmly and without reserve … and found herself smiling.
It seemed to her that the war-talk took on a different flavour that night. They discussed the news from outside; Lord Essex’s defeat at the hands of the King at Lostwithiel and the victory of a renegade Scottish Earl and his tiny band of Irish cut-throats over the Scots allies north of the border. But there was no anti-Royalist ranting of the kind so often indulged in by Jonas and, indeed, more than a hint of criticism of the Parliament – until, that was, Colonel Fiennes quietly put an end to it.
John Lilburne accepted the check with a faint smile and shifted his ground.
‘Have you heard of our difficulties with my Lord Manchester? Fearing an absolute victory over the King, his lordship declined to march on Newark and told me to my face that he’d like to see me hanged for taking Tickhill.’
‘Oh?’ Colonel Fiennes toyed idly with his ale. ‘And is that why Lieutenant-General Cromwell sent you to me?’
The clever gaze widened.
‘Not at all, sir. You requested reinforcements and, since Lord Manchester will not have his troops used, Lieutenant-General Cromwell supplied you from his own.’ A sudden gleam of amusement dawned. ‘Though perhaps it was politic to remove me for a time. If I am not mistaken, there is a quarrel brewing.’
‘And no need to ask whose side you’re on, I suppose?’ It was Major Lytcot who spoke.
‘None. Oliver Cromwell is a great man and, if he were allowed to control the war without interference from ham-fisted Moderates such as Manchester and Essex, it would be over by Easter.’
‘I see,’ said the Colonel. ‘And then?’
‘And then the Lord’s work can begin,’ replied Lilburne simply. ‘The instatement of civil liberty and freedom of conscience that are the right of every free-born Englishman.’
Throughout the meal, Samuel had remained almost totally silent. Even afterwards, when Lieutenant-Colonel Lilburne expounded his views on free elections and universal franchise, he still said nothing. It was only as Lilburne announced his intention to retire that Abigail saw her brother make a move to detain him.
‘I would like to know more,’ he said quietly. ‘If it’s no trouble?’
Free-born John looked searching back at him and then smiled.
‘It’s no trouble. Come.’
*
After Lieutenant-Colonel Lilburne’s revelations about Lord Manchester, it not unnaturally came as a surprise when part of his lordship’s regiment arrived in Banbury on the following Sunday, along with some fifty miners from Bedworth. Colonel Fiennes, however, wasted no time in idle speculation. He had longed to try a new approach and now had the means to do it. The colliers were immediately set to work undermining the curtain wall of the Castle.
As soon as he knew what was afoot, Samuel vanished from the house and took himself off to watch. He returned in the late afternoon to find Abigail smothered in flour and rolling out pastry.
Without even glancing up, she said despondently, ‘It’s cracking. I knew it would. Patchwork pie again.’
Samuel grinned, draped his cloak over the back of the settle and sat down.
‘It’s disaster all round, then. Colonel Fiennes has had a bad day, too.’
‘Oh?’ Abigail lifted the pastry with stealth and cunning. A good third of it fell back
on the board.
‘Yes. His miners swear a lot.’
‘I know how they feel.’ The pastry was kneaded savagely back into a submissive lump. ‘Have they dug a tunnel yet?’
‘They’ve dug half a dozen,’ said Samuel, his voice warm with amusement. ‘Unfortunately, the ground they’ve chosen is like a bog so all they’ve achieved is to locate two underground springs and drain part of the moat. They are wet, dirty and tired. And the garrison, needless to say, have been laughing themselves silly. One of their officers has a particularly annoying sense of humour … and after he got bored with offering unwanted advice, he got his men to rig up a couple of catapults. That was when the language deteriorated. In fact, the whole situation grew rather ripe because – presumably to save ammunition and also because the miners are civilians – our enterprising Cavalier decided to make do with dung.’
‘What?’ Abigail stopped work and stared at him. ‘They used what?’
‘Dung,’ repeated Samuel, unsteadily. ‘Cow dung, horse dung – I don’t know. They catapulted it down on those poor, wet miners. Colonel Fiennes wasn’t amused.’
‘Can you blame him?’ she shrugged, smiling.
‘Not at all,’ choked Samuel. ‘But guess who organised it?’
‘How should I know?’ she began. And then stopped, her awed dark eyes meeting Samuel’s hilarious ones. ‘Oh. You are joking?’
‘Not me. Your Captain Ambrose is the one with an inventive turn of mind. But he’d better watch his step on the next sortie because there isn’t one of our officers who wouldn’t be glad to put his head on a pike.’
~ * ~
SIX
The night was cloudless, the moon just entering its dark quarter and all lay calm and still in the rebel encampment.
‘It seems a pity to wake them,’ said Ned Frost regretfully. ‘This is the first bit of peace we’ve had in over a week.’
‘Quite.’ Justin finished buckling the straps of the back-and-breast which covered his buff-coat. ‘They’re tired and they know that we are too – so they won’t be expecting us. Perfect.’
They had had it planned for three days, waiting only for the right moment. Other sorties had combined success with a certain degree of reckless spontaneity but now every musket-shot and ounce of energy had to be made to count and every potential advantage made into a reality. And tonight, Friday September 20th, was vitally important – for the enemy was making extensive preparations for an assault.
The episode with the miners, whispered the garrison, grinning, was to blame. On the very next day, Colonel Fiennes had attempted to salvage his dignity by sending another formal summons to surrender but it hadn’t helped him. His Trumpet passed from the collective snigger of the outer ward to the lofty tones of Sir William Compton who, having wondered that Colonel Fiennes should require a second telling, had bidden Trumpet Woodley be gone before he received another manner of answer.
And that had been that. Outside the Castle, moves towards the first major assault had begun forthwith – while, inside it, Colonel Greene began planning his counter-measures.
In the courtyard, a hundred hand-picked men awaited their final instructions from the Colonel.
‘The word for tonight is to be ‘King and Castle’ and our sign, the white band on each man’s right arm. Your aim, as you know, is the destruction of guns and scaling ladders - and anything else that comes within your reach. We will, of course, be taking no prisoners and there is to be absolute silence before the attack. That is all, gentlemen – except to wish you good luck and good hunting.’
*
From the entrance of the tent which, for the last three nights, had replaced his comfortable bed at the Ragged Staff, John Fiennes brooded on the dark bulk of the Castle. His gun crews were sprawled, dozing, about their batteries and his pioneers had been given leave to withdraw from their earthworks. There could be no sortie tonight. If his men were exhausted, then the Cavaliers were doubly so and his own pervading sense of unease, mere folly. He would not listen to it. There would be no sortie tonight.
Suddenly, the tranquil darkness was shattered. From the crenelated battlements, a shower of whizzing, flaming arrows rained down on the gun-emplacements. Beneath them, illuminated by the glare, bodies of well-drilled infantry came hacking through the outposts. A Puritan to the core, Colonel Fiennes rarely forgot himself but he was soldier enough to do so now. He bellowed three regrettably curse-stricken orders at his lieutenant and dived inside the tent to arm himself.
The alarm was already being given as Justin led his troop through the vedettes and men were emerging from all directions – startled, unarmed and in varying states of undress. All was confusion and tumult but the small band of Cavaliers still had their work cut out to gain the batteries and Justin, helping to block the path to a cannon-royal while his men spiked it, suddenly found himself confronted by a furious officer in black.
‘You!’ snapped John Fiennes, staring over crossed blades into Justin’s face. ‘This is a pleasure I’d scarcely dared hope for.’
Grinning, Justin disengaged and replied with a botta lunga.
‘I’m flattered.’
‘Don’t be. I intend to see you hanged.’
‘The road to hell,’ observed Justin, sidestepping to avoid a thrust to the shoulder, ‘is paved with good intentions. What you need is an opportunity. I, too. What a shame your miners wouldn’t stay.’
Colonel Fiennes attempted a feint and then whipped up his guard before Justin could follow parry with attack.
‘Do you have a name?’ he asked, between set teeth. ‘Or are you merely the bastard you’ve shown yourself to be?’
The grey eyes narrowed and grew hard as granite. Then, with a swift, invisible twist, Justin sent the other man’s sword spinning from his hand and pushed him back against the banked-up earth of the ditch. Not far away, the Royalist drummers were beating the Retreat.
‘Ambrose,’ he said with freezing clarity, the tip of his blade hovering motionless a mere inch from the Colonel’s throat. ‘Justin Ambrose. And you, I suppose, are John Fiennes?’
‘I am.’
‘Good. Your word, Colonel. Safe-conduct for fifty yards with no bullet in the back. Otherwise, I’ll have to kill you.’
‘Very well. You have it.’ There was no hesitation. Colonel Fiennes disapproved of pointless heroics and only a fool argued with thirty-five inches of steel at his throat. ‘Fifty yards.’
‘Thank you.’ With a curt nod, Justin withdrew his sword and turned to go. ‘Oh – and do give my love to Nathaniel.’
*
Through a fog of sleep, Justin became slowly conscious of two things; one was a persistent voice and fist on the far side of the door and the other was of something wet and warm against his face. The first, he was tired enough to want to ignore; the second caused him to force his eyelids apart.
Velvety brown eyes regarded him with pleased approval and a raspy, pink tongue gave his chin a congratulatory lick. Then the paws on his chest altered their position and Rex sat down, plainly satisfied with both their achievements.
‘I suppose,’ mumbled Justin bitterly, ‘that you think you’re clever?’
A feathery tail stirred and two long ears brushed his throat. In the last three weeks, the little spaniel had improved tremendously both in size and confidence. He had also become a general favourite – which basically meant that, no matter who else went hungry, Rex was always assured of more titbits than he could manage. Though he was willing to associate with everyone from Sir William down to the humblest soldier, his chosen home was the rag rug on Justin’s hearth and there was no one in the Castle who did not know it.
‘Captain Ambrose!’ The fist hammered again on the door. ‘Captain Ambrose, sir!’
Justin drew a long breath, put the dog to one side and sat up, rubbing his eyes.
‘Yes? Come in.’
The door opened and a young trooper poked his head round it.
‘It’s a quarter before six, sir, and y
ou’re wanted below. Sir William says —’
‘Yes, yes. I can guess.’ As yet, the effect of Justin’s three-hour sleep was to make him feel a good deal worse than if he had done without it. ‘Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
The head vanished. Justin heaved the leaden objects which he knew to be his legs down to the floor and surveyed the trail of coat, shirt, breeches and boots that marked his last progress from door to bed. He dimly recalled a determination to shed his clothes which he now rather regretted since it meant that he had to summon the energy to put them back on.
Rex jumped down, sat on his master’s best silk sash and barked encouragingly.
‘All right,’ groaned Justin. He rose, mother-naked, and fixed the spaniel with a gimlet stare. ‘You win. Just don’t overplay your hand, that’s all.’
The council of war, held in the Governor’s quarters to the accompanying roar of the usual cannonade from outside, was brief and to the point. The losses of the sortie were set against the degree of havoc it had wrought amidst the rebel emplacements and the venture pronounced relatively successful. A list of provisions showed an absence of salt, flour, vegetables and preserved meat. Supplies of ale, biscuits and cheese, even with more stringent rationing, would scarcely last the month. Stocks of great and small shot far outstripped the amount of powder available to fire them and two of the drakes had been damaged beyond repair.
The simple truth was that, if help did not come, the Castle must fall; not today nor even, perhaps, next week, but quite soon. Yet a subtle sense of pride invested the council table. They had been cut off from the outside world for nine long weeks and under constant attack for the last four – but the will to resist was still strong. They were not finished yet.
The meeting had ended and some of the officers had already returned to duty when Sir William tossed two news-sheets down on the table and invited those who remained to read them.
‘One of our fellows brought them back from last night’s sortie. Mayhem in Aberdeen, the Great Cuckold pushed into the sea at Lostwithiel and the continuing saga of a certain Oxfordshire siege. Yes, gentlemen … England thrills to our tribulations and Anthony here has become a Great Man.’
