A Crowning Mercy

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Watch your front!” Captain Tugwell shouted, and then a musket fired from across the moat, there were shouts and all the defenders on the castle lawn rested muskets on the spiked forks, pulled triggers, and at the same moment Campion became aware of a great, growling cheer from the north. She was running now, panic giving her speed, and in the light of the burning, destroyed keep, she saw where the stones, flung by the explosion, had shattered windows of the Old and New House.

  The two gunners who had deserted from the Roundhead lines, and who had been promised twenty pounds apiece by Ebenezer Slythe, had done their work well. They had gone for powder, waited until the other gunners had collected their small kegs and then laid a simple powder trail. An old sergeant in charge of the magazine had found them, but he was dead in seconds, his throat cut, and then they had lit the powder trail and sprinted for the safety of the stable-yard. The explosion, coming sooner than they expected, had flung both men down, but they were unharmed. They went on toward the stable, laughing at the sound of destruction and burning behind them, intent only on hiding for the next few minutes until the castle was taken.

  Toby, by the gatehouse ruins, saw the great spike of flame, saw the sheet of fire that followed which outlined the tall chimneys of the Old House. His men stared, aghast, and then there was a thunder of hooves mixed with the noise of the exploding powder, and Toby turned. “Your front! Take aim!”

  The Lobsters stormed out of the darkness, wheeled their horses and fired pistols at the defenders. More men came from the west, their muskets spitting fire over the moat, but then, in the light of the fire, Toby saw a mass of the enemy moving toward the keep and the kitchen garden.

  Most of the defenders in that area, he knew, would be dead or dazed. “Sergeant!”

  “Sir?”

  “Hold here with your men. The rest of you! Follow me!”

  Ebenezer Slythe felt an exultation as he saw the enemy magazine destroy the keep. This he had prayed for! Lord Atheldene, when there had been a suggestion that a mine might be dug beneath some part of the castle’s defenses, had refused the suggestion. It was not an honorable way to fight, he said, not unless the garrison was given warning of the explosion and time to remove their men from the immediate area. Ebenezer had no such scruples. This was the vengeance of the Lord, the mighty hand of the Almighty come to earth, and he felt a sudden, unexpected excitement as the killing fragments of the disintegrating keep scythed outward and took death to Lazen Castle. Truly God was great!

  The banners of the Parliamentarians surged forward. A cheer went up. The fire was bright on swords, pikes and helmets. The flags, bearing texts of scripture, forged ahead of the throng. Ebenezer smiled at Samuel Scammell and raised his voice: “‘The Lord is mighty in battle!’”

  “Indeed and indeed.” Scammell swallowed, hardly believing the thunderous pit which belched flame and smoke into the sky. “Amen.”

  The first Roundhead standards were going through the old breach into the kitchen garden, turning right to assault the Old House, and Ebenezer urged his horse forward. “Come along, Brother Scammell. We take possession of your bride!”

  Scammell stumbled forward, his feet clumsy in the darkness. His sword almost tripped him. They went onward toward the shouts and the steel-ring of battle.

  Colonel Washington was blinded, stone scraps taking his eyes and leaving him helpless. He sat, his face a mask of blood, and listened to the rush of enemy feet in the yard.

  Toby, cutting through the Old House, met the first enemy in the washroom. Toby felt about Lazen as his mother did. This was home, the seat of the Lazenders, and his fury gave him a massive strength. One man, then another, was slashed by his sword, tipped bloodily into the low stone trough where the castle’s linen was scrubbed. James Wright, beside him, hewed with an axe, saying nothing as he slaughtered two men with horrid efficiency.

  “Lazender! Lazender!” Toby bellowed his war cry, leading his men out into the lurid yard. He caught a fragmentary glimpse of the carnage wrought by the explosion, of the house savaged by masonry blocks, and then he was all but overwhelmed by a rush of Roundheads. A flag was close to him, its legend from the second book of Kings: “Smite them with the edge of the sword.” Toby did the smiting. He was sobbing in anger and hatred as he chopped down the standard-bearer and thrust his sword into the belly of an officer who tried to defend the falling flag. James Wright was beside him, axe whirling in the flame-light, driving their enemy back.

  “Lazender! Lazender!”

  Pike blades came for them, the fifteen-foot weapons offering safety to the Roundheads, and Toby swept in impotence at the steel-spiked poles. As soon as a blade was pushed aside, another pike would take its place, jabbing forward.

  “Come back, Toby!” James Wright forgot about rank, remembering only his boyhood companion of stream and forest. “Come back.”

  “Damn them!” He hammered with the sword, hearing it ring on a pike blade, seeing another come forward, and then Toby saw the flash of a musket from the enemy ranks.

  He seemed to be on fire, such was the pain, and the echo of the ringing blade rose to a screeching pitch in his ears. His sword fell. The pain was slamming back and forth and the pikes were coming over him. He fell. James Wright tried to pick him up, to pull him backward, but the Roundheads were charging now and the huge man went back before the pikes, seeking safety in the warren of rooms in the Old House.

  Toby moaned, rolled over, tried to rise, but a sword blade slashed light in the early dawn, came down, and there was a terrible pain in his left hand. He screamed, fell back and the boots of the enemy went over his unconscious body. Lazen Castle had fallen, as so many houses fell, to treachery.

  “Be brave!” Lady Margaret ordered the group of women in the gallery. “Be brave!” She put the musketoon on the table beside her, but Campion could see it was not loaded.

  Muskets sounded in the gardens below. Enid screamed, making Lady Margaret turn furiously round. “Be quiet!”

  The shouts of the victors echoed through the castle. The slaughter was nearly over. The garrison was being taken prisoner, stripped of its valuables and herded toward the stable-yard where the two traitors greeted their rescuers warmly. One man, from Captain Tugwell’s company, tore off his leather jacket and tried to swim the moat. Campion, standing at a window of the long gallery, saw the Roundheads run to the bank. They pulled pistols from their belts and used the bobbing head for target practice. A red stain appeared on the gray water. Others of the enemy were pushing into the church. She knew they would tear out the altar rails, thinking them Popish, and then wrestle the great, heavy altar into the center of the church. Once that was done and the decorations had been destroyed or defaced, it would be thought to be a house worthy of God.

  “Campion! You will stand by me!” Lady Margaret beckoned peremptorily. “Enid! Be quiet! I do not wish to tell your mother that you were weak. Stand there, Campion.” Caroline, still in a night-gown over which she had put a cloak, stood on her mother’s right, Campion to Lady Margaret’s left. Lady Margaret put an arm about Campion’s shoulder. “They won’t touch you, child. I shall see to that. The name of Lazender will carry some weight, even with these scum.”

  More shouts, closer now, and another rattle of musketry. Dogs barked in the castle. Men laughed. There was a scream from the kitchens. The smoke of the explosion smelled acrid in the long gallery. In the Old House the victors tore down curtains, ripped bed linen, fired muskets into furniture and pictures.

  Campion was terrified, yet she dared not show it. She wondered, grasping for any straw, if Ebenezer would be kind. He was, after all, her brother.

  Mildred, hair standing on her back, erupted through the door of the long gallery and ran straight to Campion. She stooped, picked the cat up and held it close to her breasts. She felt the seal. She fumbled with her left hand, pulling the seal up and over her bonnet, and then there seemed no place to hide it. She dropped it inside her dress, feeling it lodge where her white linen stomacher
was tight at her waist. The seal. It had brought this horror to Lazen. She wondered where Toby was. She had not had time to say a prayer for him that morning.

  Footsteps sounded loud on the great marble staircase, a single man running, and Campion desperately wanted it to be Toby. She wondered if she ought to run, to hide, maybe to try and make her own escape in the confusion, but she wanted it to be with Toby.

  Captain Tugwell, his right arm bloody, came into the long gallery. He stopped, staring at the group of women, and his sword, red like his arm, dropped. “You’re safe. Thank God!”

  “We do thank him, Captain. What happened?”

  Captain Tugwell had no time to answer Lady Margaret’s query. There was the sound of more boots on the stairs, a group of men this time, and Campion saw the Captain turn to the open door. She saw his sword come up, waver, then go slowly down. There was a look of resignation on his face. The moment she feared had come.

  Four men came into the long gallery. They wore leather jerkins beneath breastplates, barred helmets over their faces, and at their waists were the bright orange sashes of Parliament. The steel-barred faces, anonymous in the gloom, turned toward the women, then, seemingly as one, back to Captain Tugwell. He was disarmed, pushed out of the long gallery, and then the four faces looked back. One man walked toward them, his sword drawn. His boots were loud on the checkered tiles until he reached the long central rug. “Lady Margaret Lazender?”

  “I am she.” Campion felt Lady Margaret stiffen.

  The man stopped. He pushed his helmet up by the steel peak, dragging it backward off his head. His dark hair showed the imprint of the leather helmet-liner. It was a man Campion had never seen before.

  “My name is Colonel Fuller. I assume you are yielding the castle to me?”

  “That is for my husband. I would not be so presumptuous.”

  Colonel Fuller frowned. He had not expected the answer. “The castle’s taken.”

  “So you tell me. I trust that even a rebel will ensure the safety of women’s lives?”

  Fuller frowned again. “I do not fight women.”

  “Then I do not understand why you see fit to approach me with a drawn sword, Colonel. If you wish to kill me, do so now. Otherwise please put it away. Where is my husband?”

  More footsteps at the door. Campion felt Lady Margaret tighten her arm on her shoulders. The sky was lightening, filling the Lazen valley with dawn. The birds sang as if this day was any other.

  Six men came into the room. At first Campion thought them all to be soldiers, but then she saw the black clothes, the lacquered breastplate of her brother. Next to Ebenezer, easily recognizable despite his barred helmet, was Scammell.

  Ebenezer’s voice was low, yet it carried easily to Campion. “I thought it plain, Colonel, that only Sir Grenville’s men were to be allowed in this part of the house?”

  Colonel Fuller turned, his sword halfway into his scabbard. Campion almost expected him to draw the sword, to punish Ebenezer for his insolence, but to her surprise the Colonel nodded. “We’re leaving.”

  “Do so.”

  Campion had changed in these last nine months, yet she was astonished to see that her brother too had become such a different person. The awkwardness was gone, the sullen face had become hard and lean. The long gallery seemed filled with his quiet menace.

  The door closed behind Colonel Fuller. Ebenezer limped toward the women. “Which of you is Margaret Lazender?”

  Campion felt Lady Margaret’s body draw upright. “My name, boy, is Lady Margaret Lazender.”

  “Your name, woman, is Margaret Lazender.” Ebenezer’s limp made his slow progress along the carpet seem sinister. “The book of Job, Margaret Lazender, chapter thirty-two, and the twenty-first verse, ‘…neither let me give flattering titles unto man.’ On the last day, Margaret Lazender, you will have no flattering title. You may as well accustom yourself to the loss.” He looked casually at Campion. “Hello, sister.”

  Lady Margaret tightened her arm on Campion’s shoulder. “This girl is under my protection.”

  Ebenezer laughed, a sour sound. “You have no protection to offer, woman. This house is now the property of Parliament, of the people of England.” His voice was rising, whiplashing across the room. “You may stay here, woman, as the law says, until its disposal is agreed, but in that time you have no protection to offer. You have nothing.”

  Lady Margaret was astonished, taken aback by the confidence of Ebenezer’s voice. She played an unlikely card, recognizing, perhaps, that in defeat she must seek the help of the victors for the vanquished were powerless. “The Earl of Fleet, young man, may curb your insolence.”

  Ebenezer had stopped a few feet from the women. “The Earl of Fleet, Margaret Lazender, will be a voice in the wilderness. The day of your kind is over. There will be no more Lords, no more gentry, no more King.” He turned, raising his voice, “Brother Scammell? Come!”

  Lady Margaret grasped at another straw. “Where is my husband? I demand my husband is brought here.”

  Ebenezer whipped back, pointing a long, white finger. “You have no demands. None.”

  “Ebenezer!” Campion took a pace forward, her voice pleading. “Ebenezer?”

  “Quiet.” His face mocked her, his voice was filled with hatred. “You are nothing, sister, nothing. You were given gifts that any person could dream of. Yours is a wealth beyond the blessings of God, and what did you do? You came here, to this den of thieves, to this Papist household, to our enemies! Do not plead with me, sister.”

  Samuel Scammell walked uneasily toward them, his plump body heavy among the fine furniture. He looked nervous, uncertain whether to smile or scowl, his helmet awkward in his left hand. His scabbard knocked against a chair.

  Ebenezer smiled. “Your bride awaits, brother.”

  Lady Margaret pulled Campion back to her side, she opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment the door to the gallery was thrown open and a white-faced, frantic Mr. Perilly shouted down the gallery, “Lady Margaret!”

  “Hold him!” Ebenezer shouted.

  “My lady!” Mr. Perilly dodged one soldier, but was held by the next. Scammell had stopped, made more nervous by the interruption.

  Lady Margaret frowned. “Mr. Perilly? What is it?”

  Ebenezer did not let the priest answer. “Who are you?”

  Mr. Perilly seemed to notice Ebenezer for the first time. He shook off the hand of the soldier and straightened his black, soiled coat. “My name, sir, is Perilly. I have the honor to be vicar of this parish.”

  Ebenezer laughed. “You have the honor to be sucking the teat of the scarlet whore of Babylon. What do you want?”

  Mr. Perilly looked at Lady Margaret, his hands clenched as if in prayer. “Sir George, Lady Margaret!” He stopped.

  Lady Margaret took her arms from the girl’s shoulders. She was suddenly very calm, very erect. “Go on, Simon. Tell me.”

  “He’s dead, your Ladyship. And your son’s wounded, but Sir George is dead. A musket ball, your Ladyship. Dead!”

  Caroline cried out, the maids sobbed, but Lady Margaret called for quiet. Campion seemed frozen, the news clamoring in her head. Toby wounded? She remembered she had not prayed for him that morning and she cried out.

  “Quiet, Campion.” Lady Margaret looked scornfully at Ebenezer. “I am going, young man, to my husband and my son. If you wish to stop me, you will have to kill me. I have no doubt you are capable of any such filthiness. Come!”

  With that she began walking. Ebenezer stepped aside, half smiling, as if Lady Margaret had paid him a compliment. He watched the women go past, but, as Campion followed Caroline, he reached out a claw-like hand and took her elbow. “Not you, sister.”

  She wanted to pull away, she wanted to cry out, but this was no time to call on Lady Margaret for help. Lazen Castle had been overtaken by a tragedy far greater than Campion’s fate. She hardly felt her brother’s hand gripping her arm. She could only watch Lady Margaret follow Mr. Perilly from
the room, and she cried out inside for Toby. It was her fault, her fault, and she wondered if Lady Margaret would ever forgive her for bringing this vengeance on Lazen because it had sheltered her and the Seal of St. Matthew. The cat stirred in her right arm and she stroked it. It was the only scrap of love left in her destroyed world.

  A soldier shut the long gallery door behind the women. Scammell, who had watched them go, turned to Campion and gave her a nervous smile. She did not see it.

  Another soldier, who had been searching the rooms of the New House, came into the gallery through its western door. “Sir?”

  Ebenezer looked at the man. “Yes?”

  “I found somewhere, sir.”

  “Good.” Ebenezer looked at Scammell. “Come along, brother.”

  He took Campion with him, the soldiers coming behind, and she hardly knew what was happening. Toby wounded was all she could comprehend.

  The soldier had found the bedroom that opened off the western end of the long gallery. It was rarely used for sleeping because, in the evening, it was filled with a delicate, fading light and Lady Margaret liked to sit there before dinner. Campion had often read aloud in the room.

  Ebenezer glanced inside. A second door opened on to the corridor. “Is it locked?”

  “Just locked it, sir.” The soldier held out the key.

  “Good.” Ebenezer smiled. “In you go, sister. I trust the bed is comfortable.” He laughed. The soldiers, all men in Sir Grenville Cony’s debt, laughed with him. She was pushed inside.

  Ebenezer smiled at Samuel Scammell. “Do your duty, brother.” He took the key from the door that opened on to the long gallery, gestured Scammell inside, and then shut the door on both of them.

  Campion was delivered to her enemies.

  Eighteen

  This was the moment she had feared, yet somehow it was impossible to be scared of Samuel Scammell. He shambled into the room behind her, blinked as the door was closed on them, and then stood helplessly as Campion went into the recess of the bow window. She clutched the cat to her. “You’re not going to touch me.”