by Stella Riley
‘I don’t care if it is,’ said Samuel firmly. ‘This is what I want to do – and, for once, it’s something I can do without Jonas or my foot getting in the way.’
‘Does that mean Jonas knows?’
‘Don’t be silly. He may be all admiration for John’s religious views but can you honestly see him supporting any move towards an extended franchise? He’s too fond of his own importance.’
Worry began to gnaw at Abigail and she said, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Not much, at present. Distribute a few illicit pamphlets – that sort of thing.’ He smiled at her. ‘Don’t worry. In a few months, I’ll be able to do it all openly.’
‘Will you? Supposing we win the war and so on … where does the King fit in to all John Lilburne’s plans?’
The smile faded. ‘Where he’s always fitted in but with less actual power. Win or lose, he’ll still be the King, won’t he?’ demanded Samuel in exasperation. ‘Since you’re obviously set on being difficult, I’m going out.’
‘I’m not being difficult. I’m trying to understand,’ snapped Abigail. And then, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Down to the lines. I feel like doing some digging.’
*
The first week of October struggled by, then the second and the siege moved sullenly into its thirteenth week. Colonel Fiennes’ engineer dug long, long tunnels from North Bar to the Castle; the garrison kept its ear to the ground and counter-mined. The engineer maintained a patient façade and changed location only to meet with the same reception. Colonel Fiennes permitted himself a little subtle sympathy and the engineer lost his temper. The days fell into an uneasy rhythm. In the town, men whispered of the devil’s magic and said William Compton never slept. John Fiennes scorned the first and began to believe the second.
‘It’s only a matter of time,’ he told Major Lytcot. ‘They’re tired, virtually out of powder and probably starving. We can take the place in two weeks simply by waiting – instead of which we’re decimating our troops just to satisfy the notions of our civilian masters at Derby House.’
The Major nodded gloomily. The times were uncertain and careers had foundered on smaller ventures than this. Success yesterday meant nothing and failure today could ruin you. Look at Sir William Waller. Look, as the Colonel must be doing at his brother, Nathaniel – court-martialled for surrendering Bristol. It was a grim warning.
Untouched by these worries, Rob Woodley was endeavouring to brighten the monotony of his days by luring his hostess into mild flirtation. This was not easy because Abigail rarely recognised what was required of her … but he persevered and was occasionally rewarded by a glimpse of something very appealing. Abby might not be pretty in the usual sense but she had the most remarkable smile he had ever seen and might, were she not so steeped in her appalling brother’s Puritanism, have developed other qualities. For, although he supported the Parliament heart and soul, Rob saw no sin in laughter and no virtue in sartorial austerity. And Jonas Radford curdled his blood.
He realised this on a day when, having nothing better to do, he passed an idle hour teaching Abigail a song. It was an innocent pastime for she was busy making a custard and the door stood open to the scullery where Betty was preparing vegetables. But to Jonas, who entered the parlour in time to hear his sister timidly singing along with a young man, it was as shocking as if he’d found her naked in the street.
This time of the year is spent in good cheer
Kind neighbours together to meet
To sit by the fire, with friendly desire
Each other in love to greet.
Old grudges forgot are put in a pot
All sorrows aside they lay
The old and the young do carol this song
To drive the cold winter away.
Jonas erupted violently into the kitchen and the comfortable tableau dissolved. Abigail froze, clutching a basin, and Rob rose abruptly from the settle.
‘How dare you?’ breathed Jonas. ‘How dare you sully my house with immoral rubbish! Are you both lost to all sense of decency or shame?’
‘Oh come now!’ Rob expostulated. ‘There was no harm in it. It was only —’
‘I know what it was and it has no place under my roof,’ replied Jonas harshly. ‘Neither have you any business here alone with my sister and I shall speak to Colonel Fiennes of your behaviour this evening. In the meantime, you may return to your duties.’
Rob hesitated. It seemed unfair to leave Abigail to bear the brunt but the fellow had told him to go and it was difficult to know how best to refuse without making the situation worse. He compromised by making a magnificently untruthful apology. Then he left.
Abigail’s eyes rose slowly to meet those of her brother. She said, ‘I’m sorry, Jonas. I didn’t think.’
‘Think? You never think! You encourage familiarity like any common trollop. Do you know what that song is about? It is about the heathen, idolatrous, self-indulgent practices that take place at the time of our Lord’s birth. It’s about drinking and mumming and licentious behaviour of all kinds. And you see no harm in it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Abigail again. Her hands were shaking and she set the basin carefully on the table. ‘I d-didn’t know.’
‘Is that supposed to be an excuse?’ snapped Jonas, lashing himself into greater rage. It was not difficult for, at times like this, he dimly recognised that he did not like Abigail; that there was something in her which needed to be crushed. ‘Look at yourself! With your hair falling out of your cap as usual – is it any wonder you’re taken for a loose woman? Wide is the gate and broad the way that leadeth to destruction. But no sister of mine shall take that road while I have breath in my body.’ He reached out and his fingers closed hard on her arm. ‘Aside from that which I heard, what other liberties have you permitted that impious young fool?’
‘None.’ White-faced and breathless, Abigail struggled to at least appear calm. ‘None at all. I swear it.’
‘He hasn’t touched you?’
‘No. Never.’
There was a pause while Jonas fought to control his temper and then the bruising grip relaxed as he forced her to her knees on the brick floor.
‘I shall try to believe you. But we will pray together that God will deliver you from the sins of the flesh and teach your heart the purity that it should have. For I fear, Abigail, I greatly fear that you have the seeds of wantonness in you.’
*
On the following morning while Jonas was out visiting his wife at Grimsbury, Abigail entered the shop to find Samuel huddled over the sales ledger, his eyes heavy and his face flushed.
‘Sam? What’s wrong? You look awful.’
‘I feel awful. I can’t get warm and my chest hurts and the rest of me aches as if I’d been beaten with a cudgel,’ he said fretfully. ‘I suppose it’s only a touch of ague but I feel like death.’
‘Bed,’ said his sister decisively. She crossed to the shop door and locked it. ‘Go on. I’ll send Betty for the apothecary.’
The apothecary came, shook his head and spoke of the baleful influence of Mars before recommending a purge. Abigail’s stare told him that he had made a mistake. He progressed to Saturn, produced a vial of Peruvian bark and left. Abigail persuaded Samuel to swallow the potion and when, four hours later, he showed every sign of growing rapidly worse, tried a cordial of her mother’s. It was as useless as the other. By the time Jonas returned, Samuel was burning with fever and restless with delirium.
For the first time in her life, Abigail was immune to her elder brother’s disapproval. Ignoring his remarks about the closure of the shop and the fact that the evening meal was far from ready, she said, ‘Sam needs a doctor.’
Jonas scoffed, blustered and eventually produced the information that the town’s physician was no longer in residence.
‘Then ask Colonel Fiennes. The army must have one.’
‘One what?’ asked the Colonel, entering unnoticed behind them. ‘Is there some way
in which I can help?’
It was Abigail to whom he spoke and Abigail who explained what she wanted. Thirty minutes later the army surgeon was at Samuel’s bedside.
‘It’s the new fever,’ he announced, regarding Abigail from under bushy red brows. ‘We’ve had it in the ranks on and off for some weeks now. But there’s nae reason tae fear. The laddie’s young and strong and wi’ proper care he’ll do well enough. Keep him warm and quiet and dose him wi’ the poppy if ye have tae – but carefully, mind.’ He picked up his hat. ‘The King’s man, Harvey, has put a fancy name tae it – something tae to wi’ its influence, I believe – but I canna recall just what. Good day tae ye, Mistress. Ye can call me again if there’s need.’
*
While Samuel lay in the town and battled with Dr Harvey’s ‘influenza’, Captain Vaughan lay in the Castle and began to recover from the wound that he had received during the assault. It was the one bright spot in an otherwise cheerless world for, by the middle of October, the Castle’s powder was almost gone and the entire garrison had been existing solely on severely-rationed horse-meat for nearly a fortnight. Every face was fine-drawn, its pallor printed with the flat marks of exhaustion. Every day reactions grew that little bit slower and less reliable. The end was very close and inescapable.
‘They don’t seem to be trying very hard these days,’ remarked Ned to Justin as they crossed the outer ward to check the guards one night.
‘They don’t have to try at all,’ came the dry response. ‘They only have to wait. Now … what do you suppose he’s doing?’
‘Who?’
‘Potts. There, look – creeping down into the cellar. The bastard’s supposed to be on duty, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’ Ned peered through the gloom. ‘Shall I go?’
‘No. I will. You see if any of the others have decided to take the night off.’
Silent as a shadow, Justin crossed the courtyard and vanished inside the remains of the west turret. At the foot of the steps, light flickered and steadied into a gentle glow. Justin started carefully down and then stopped abruptly as a soft vibration of sound reached his ears.
‘Potts! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Trooper Potts jumped, swore and nearly upset the lantern. The light eddied and swayed, settling first on the Captain and then on the row of rough boxes along the opposite wall.
‘Well?’ snapped Justin.
Trooper Potts’ face crumpled into lines of acute depression.
‘It’s the pigeons, sir.’
‘I can see that, damn it. What I’d like to know is what both they and you are doing here? You’re supposed to be on watch.’
‘I came down to let ‘em go,’ came the morose reply. ‘I ain’t got nothing to feed ‘em on and they’m good birds, even if they ain’t my own.’
He stroked the one he held and Justin stared, his breath catching raw in his throat.
‘They wouldn’t, by any chance, be carrier pigeons?’
‘’Course they are. I told you, they’m good birds.’
‘And not your own?’
‘No.’
Captain Ambrose sat abruptly on the steps and dropped his head into his hands.
‘Oh God,’ he said unsteadily.
‘Justin?’ Ned Frost came hurtling down the steps and narrowly missed falling over his friend. ‘What’s the matter? Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ The Captain sat up, still gripped by ironic laughter. ‘Did you know that, during the weeks we’ve spent desperately trying to get a message out of here, our friend Mr Potts has been keeping carrier pigeons?’
Ned’s eyes widened. ‘Christ! You haven’t?’
Potts sniffed. ‘Well I have. Got a friend in Oxford, see.’
‘Oxford?’ repeated Justin gently. ‘Really? Ned, go and get some paper, will you? It might not do any good … but we’re going to send a few messages. It may be that there’s no help to send – or it may be that Oxford simply isn’t aware how critical our situation is. Either way, we can at least try.’
Ned vanished again and Justin continued to regard the trooper with fragile tranquillity.
‘I’m not going to ask how you’ve done it or for how long,’ he went on mildly. ‘But just tell me one thing. Why, in the name of God, didn’t you have the sense to confide your little secret to one of us?’
Trooper Potts looked back at him with a mixture of surprise and impatience.
‘Well, it’s obvious, ain’t it, sir? I thought the poor little sods would end up being eaten.’
*
Another week dragged by. Seven long days and nights in which the rebels tunnelled like moles to the Castle walls and the garrison counter-mined to catch them in their works.
‘Hell,’ said Ned Frost wearily. ‘Did I say they’d stopped trying? Why do you let me open my mouth?’
‘Can we stop you?’ Justin finished tying a scarf round a gash in his left arm and leaned back, closing his eyes. ‘How many times is it now? I’ve lost count.’
‘Eleven,’ supplied Hugh Vaughan, weak and paper-white but idiotically determined to resume his duties. ‘It makes you wonder what’s holding the walls up. God, but I’m tired.’
Silence fell. Fresh from their last muddy fight in the dark confines of the earth, filthy, tattered and light-headed with exhaustion, they snatched a brief respite before returning to duty.
‘What day is it?’ asked Justin, less out of interest than in an effort to stay awake.
‘Thursday,’ said Hugh. ‘The twenty-fourth, I think. Fourteen weeks.’
There was a pause. And then, in a tone of detached surprise, Justin said, ‘It’s my birthday.’
Two gaunt and dirty faces turned slowly in his direction.
‘Congratulations,’ offered Ned. ‘I’d wish you many happy returns – except that it doesn’t seem exactly appropriate.’
‘And we can’t even drink his health.’ Hugh became mournfully Welsh. ‘There’s a pity. What is it you are, Justin-bach? Thirty?’
Distant amusement touched Justin’s mouth.
‘Twenty-six.’ Sleep was informing every muscle and he added dreamily, ‘A glass of canary, a loaf of fresh bread and a piece of cheese from anywhere except Banbury. That’s what I’d like.’
Ned groaned. ‘Don’t. Talk about something else.’
‘Yes.’ Hugh settled his head on his hand. ‘Tell us your life story.’
The light grey eyes flew suddenly wide.
‘Another time, perhaps. It’s remarkably dull and just now we have to stay awake. In fact,’ said Justin getting to his feet, ‘we ought to be getting back to work. There’s a lot to be done before dark.’ And picking up his coat, he left the room.
Ned gazed owlishly at Hugh.
‘Now look what you’ve done. You know how shy he is.’
‘Mm.’ Hugh heaved himself out of his chair. ‘Odd, isn’t it? He’s been here six months and we know virtually nothing about him.’
‘We know he’s fought abroad, served under Rupert and has the devil’s own reputation with women,’ replied Ned, yawning again. ‘Isn’t that enough for you?’
‘Not really. But then, I’m the inquisitive type.’
A couple of hours later, Ned climbed the ramparts to find Captain Ambrose scrutinising the rebel camp through a perspective-glass.
‘What is it? Any sign of activity?’
‘Yes. Rather a lot. Here – see for yourself.’ Justin passed him the glass. ‘A body of Purefoy’s Horse came in about an hour since looking as though they’d had a busy day and now there are men working at all the batteries.’
Lieutenant Frost focused on a mortar emplacement and then slowly lowered the glass to gaze blankly at Justin. ‘I’m hallucinating. They can’t really be doing what I think they’re doing. Can they?’
Justin stared enigmatically back.
‘Well, if they’re not, you and I are sharing an illusion. I think … I think it might be as well if we asked Will to come and take a look.
’
Sir William looked for a long time before saying weakly, ‘They’re preparing to move the artillery. All of it.’
‘That,’ agreed Justin, ‘is what we thought. The only question now is where they are moving it to. Ned, don’t say anything. We know about your predictions.’
‘Let’s wait and see,’ said Will. ‘It could be a ruse or a new plan of campaign – anything. They’d be mad to give up now.’
‘Unless they know something we don’t,’ amended Justin.
No one replied and he did not elaborate. There was no need. If John Fiennes was raising the siege, it was either because he had been ordered to meet an emergency elsewhere or because he knew a sizeable Royalist relief force to be on its way. And either one would represent a miracle.
Gradually, word of what was happening spread through the Castle and men began to appear, silently, on the ramparts until the walls were lined with strained, watchful faces. Below them, in the slowly deepening dusk, the black muzzles of cannon trundled one by one from the emplacements while, here and there, tents sagged like pricked bladders before disappearing from view.
It grew dark but no one in the Castle slept. Unaware of time, they continued their vigil and stored up a memory that would last forever; a pattern of moving, torchlight flares, vivid against the black night, that marked the progress of their enemy’s withdrawal to the north.
Dawn arrived with grey reluctance over gaping trenches, empty works and the last, unburied litter of the deserted camp.
Sir William turned at last to Justin.
‘Scouts,’ he said simply. ‘I want to know if the town is clear.’
An hour later, with the tension around the walls dissolving into cheerful, speculative chatter, Justin delivered his report.
‘There’s no sign of the Horse or the artillery but the western end of the town is still alive with infantry. Five hundred or so – maybe more. Their officers are still trying to collect them before moving out. What now? A sortie to hurry them along?’
‘With the only two horses we haven’t eaten and no gunpowder? Hardly.’
