A Dangerous Energy

by John Whitbourn

  ‘Did I sleep through all that?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s no shame, so did I. I only heard about it from a waggoner who was carting our dead back.’

  ‘When were the breaches in the wall made?’

  ‘Yesterday far as I can tell, seems that the gunners have been giving ’em a foretaste of hell for two days and nights but they’re saving it now for the assault.’

  ‘Which is when?’

  ‘Tomorrow if they’ve any sense, before the townies throw up covering walls; but we’ve not been told anything yet.’

  ‘Very well; stay here Sykes; use my name if anyone questions you. Also, we’ve just arrived – understand?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘If needed, I’ll be at the prince’s tent, OK?’

  ‘Sir.’

  From the town a cannon fired and both men looked round in time to see the ball hit, bounce, roll and come harmlessly to rest not twenty yards away from them.

  Tobias moved from the chaos at the edge of the camp where he had slept to regions where some military discipline prevailed. On the periphery in no discernible order were tents and vehicles of all descriptions belonging to the volunteers who had positioned themselves and their gear with little reference to others. At the centre of the camp in a small circle of organisational sanity were the bivouacs of the seconded regular foot and horse regiments.

  At the very middle, around Tobias’ destination, lay the camp of the Prince of Wales Footguards laid out with meticulous precision and surrounding the command pavilion.

  Whatever the soldiers’ grasp of military decorum, the Army was at this moment of one common purpose and in pursuit of this small fires were starting up everywhere as the evening meal was prepared.

  Even the gaudy headquarters pavilion, Tobias noticed, showed signs of campaign weariness; a long plain patch which heavily contrasted with the patterned tent material showed where an enemy artillery-team had been either exceptionally accurate or lucky.

  Tobias straightened his clothing, plucked some of the more obvious pieces of straw off himself and then stepped forward to the presence of his commander. It was, however, considerably past the commander’s bedtime (the Prince of Wales was only nine) and he was nowhere in evidence. At the door of the pavilion, two resplendent halberdiers relieved Tobias of his sword and pistols and then allowed him to pass.

  Inside there was a motley collection of ADCs, high-ranking officers and waiting messengers. Tobias stood distinct from them since his attire was starkly militaristic; only his collar and a smoky red armband decorated by the Southwark Stars spoke of his clerical status. In contrast, the assembled gentlemen had made few concessions to their warlike occupation and the baroque fashions of the current London season were well represented. Ordinarily Tobias would have looked the same but his raiding mission had precluded cutting any sort of a stylistic dash.

  His eyes sought out and at length discovered his immediate commanding officer who was browsing through a book while eating bread and cheese. Tobias made his way over to him and executed a perfunctory bow.

  Their relationship and relative standing were hard to assess; between a wealthy knight and a priest who was also a respected and high-ranking magician there were many subtle nuances of rank. However, since Tobias was technically a soldier, albeit temporarily, and Colonel Sir Joseph Hartley-Booth was a senior officer, it seemed as if a certain deference on the former’s part was the simplest solution to the problem. But there was no question of Father Oakley being subjected to the various indignities occasionally visited upon junior officers (and then generally transmitted with interest to the men under their command): his cloth and profession carried a high degree of respect.

  Colonel Hartley-Booth was in normal times a landed gentleman of leisure as well as an amateur writer of the saints’ lives. The crooked logic of the military and the inventiveness implied by this hobby had led him to be appointed as ‘Master of the Special Retinue’ – a rag-tag unit of specialists increasingly common in European armies. To him were sent those thought to have particular talents and it was Sir Joseph’s job to find a productive use for them.

  In defence of his beloved faith, Colonel Hartley-Booth was as a man possessed. He spent long hours in prayer asking for inspiration in his task. Nor were his pleas denied.

  He coined the idea of calling in one of the Crusade’s magicians to assist with the interrogation of several captured ‘pastors’ and the Army-trained inquisitors were left speechless with admiration at her tricks before death brought an end to the prisoners’ gibbered confessions.

  He scoured the volunteers and Army regiments for crackshots, ex-gamekeepers, poachers, huntsmen and the like. Out of his own pocket he purchased expensive long-barrelled rifled fowling pieces for them and then sent them out into the dead ground before the town with two days’ supply of food and drink, and plentiful ammunition. Collectively these snipers were a grievous thorn in the side to the enemy until, aggravated beyond measure, the Levellers sallied out one night and caught a dozen of them whom they then put in cages and lowered over the walls to discourage further artillery bombardment.

  At great personal risk Colonel Hartley-Booth led a party of priests (not including Tobias) right up to the town walls at the dead of night and the last rites were whispered to the cages. The following morning the bombardment started again.

  Again the Colonel’s snipers took the field but this time when the Levellers sallied out he was waiting for them with a hand-picked group of the toughest and most brutal men in the Crusade who were armed with axes, picks and half-pikes. A grim and ferocious mêlée took place until the ambushed Levellers broke; a few reached the town. Thereafter the snipers continued their play uninterrupted.

  With the proffered services of a pious-minded duelling-master the Colonel also tried to arrange a trial-by-personal-combat with the opposing general. However this scheme came to nought for the general was a man of humble origins and so did not share Hartley-Booth’s views on ‘honour’ and the challenge and acceptance ethos.

  More successful was the Colonel’s idea to send out a large number of small parties, led by men of particular resource and zeal, into the heart of enemy territory which the campaign had not previously penetrated. Tobias led one such group. A few of them did not return but the rest took a very heavy toll of the callow and unprepared rebels. A senior officer had suggested offering a bounty for each pair of rebel ears brought in so as to increase the soldiers’ enthusiasm, but a genuinely shocked Hartley-Booth had successfully argued against this. Had they forgotten, he’d said, that they were on Crusade?

  The Colonel dressed in a slightly archaic ornate frock-coat and silken breeches; somewhat incongruously he ensconced his feet in heavy and far from aesthetic military boots. His countenance could only be described as ‘rakish’, an effect heightened by his long curled moustache and elegantly ringleted hair. He looked perhaps somewhat less than his forty-five years. It was well known that he was a man of great natural piety and his presence on the mission was a sincere one.

  This could not be said of all the other volunteers on what was to become known as the Thames Valley Crusade. A sizeable proportion of the free-booting elements in European society had rushed to aid the none too enthusiastic King of England in his problems. Crusades always offered the opportunity for good plundering and free licence for behaviour normally only approved of when exercised on the infidel. In the camp, then, were elements of the pious and the lawless from France, the Empire, Poland, the Swedish Empire, Burgundy, Spain, Ireland, Florence–Tuscany, Naples and the Swiss Cantons. If King Charles of England’s anguished prayers were unanswered and it proved a lengthy campaign, then contingents from the Americas and the Christianised East might begin to arrive. Arranging their departure would not be such an easy matter.

  Over the edge of his book Hartley-Booth noticed Tobias’ bow and he gave a courteous nod in return.

  ‘Ah, Father Oakley, I’m glad to see you safely back; when did you arrive?’

/>   ‘I’ve come straight to you, Colonel.’

  ‘Good; excellent. But you and your men must be very fatigued by now so I’ll excuse you and them from further duties until the morning – all right?’

  ‘Thank you very much, Colonel.’

  ‘How did it all go?’

  ‘Very smoothly, we encountered elements of the enemy five times and prevailed in each case.’

  ‘Casualties?’

  ‘Certainly fifty and possibly ten or fifteen more, plus two of our own.’

  ‘Prisoners?’

  They had to pause as a six-horse gun limber thundered by, shaking the pavilion’s silk and velvet sides.

  ‘We took none, Colonel; there were none worth having – such leaders as they have all seem to be in the town. We were just picking off the latecomers.’

  ‘Quite; most of the other groups report a similar picture.’

  ‘Also we cleared and burnt a particularly hostile village.’

  ‘Called?’

  ‘Clarkenhurst.’

  ‘Very well; I’ll tell the map-master and he’ll record it. The next thing, Father Oakley, is the matter of the assault on the town. I can tell you under conditions of strict secrecy that it’s been arranged for tomorrow just after dawn. The Crusaders will be informed an hour or so beforehand.’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel.’

  ‘And the thing is, Oakley, that my Special Retinue have been allocated responsibility for one of the main breaches.’

  A hail of gunfire and shouts broke out at that moment. It sounded quite far away, but Tobias raised an eyebrow in enquiry.

  ‘Just a diversion attack, Oakley, to keep the heretics alert and sleepless. They’ll be happening at intervals throughout the night; one of my humble ideas.’

  ‘A very good one, Colonel.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you; but as I was saying it’s been given to me to take and hold the big gap in the wall by the Silchester gate – number 4 breach – and I’ve asked for you to be one of my chosen team. Are you agreeable?’

  ‘That’s fine by me, Colonel.’

  ‘Excellent; I may say Oakley you’ve been a not inconsiderable help to me. I shall not forget it.’

  ‘You are too kind, sir.’

  ‘Not at all, now to practical matters; I’m bringing half a hundred men – do you want your two files with you?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel, I think that would be for the best.’

  ‘I’ll not deny that to all intents and purposes you’ll be leading once we reach the breach tomorrow, I’m only along to supply the legitimate authority – too old for proper fighting you see, not like you.’

  ‘What about briefing, Colonel – that is to say do we follow any particular plan?’

  Colonel Hartley-Booth smiled absently. ‘No, not really. I’ve organised a few things but nothing that needs consultation; what I really want is for you to get up there and deal death, that’s all.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ Tobias turned away.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ the Colonel called after him, ‘we’ll assemble by the camp south gate about four and since you’ll be the only priest present I’d appreciate it if you’d say a few words over us just beforehand. There’s no preparatory mass, y’see, in case the heretics spot it and take warning. That will be all, Father. We’ll meet again at four.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Hartley-Booth had already forgotten him. Lord Onslow of Guildford was asking if he needed any of his ‘Surrey-Puma’ fanatics for tomorrow …

  CHAPTER 3

  In which our hero goes for an evening stroll and his recent history is recounted.

  Straightaway Tobias went to a provisions tent that catered for men of his rank and ate a meal of bread and chicken washed down with a quart pot of porter. He dined alone on a bench at the side of the tent; the area was crowded with gentlemen volunteers and the odd Army officer, but people had come to shun his company.

  That is often the lot of priests, for they remind others of God and mortality, but in Father Oakley’s case he had also gained the reputation of being morose and withdrawn. He cared nothing for this. The meaningless babble of fops would only serve to enrage him if one of them were unwise enough to cultivate conversation. It was sufficient that they feared him.

  When he had finished eating and drinking he leaned back and smoked an elegant cigar (one of a case he had rescued from the dead body of a Crusade officer). Not twenty-four hours ago he had been killing and that frame of mind was still upon him so he smoked and stared coolly at the assembled gentry and officers to intimidate them.

  They were all dead or vanished, everyone who had known him. When he had burnt his childhood home the day before yesterday, he had vaguely felt that it would resolve or provoke something. But there was no one to recognise him. His parents, Allingham, Todd-Williams, Pegrum, Fitzsimmons were all dead, his brothers and sisters were gone. So, even, was his first woman, buxom Betty Lockwood. Tobias had been too disappointed to make detailed enquiries and his ensuing thoughtful mood ensured for the villagers a relatively moderate treatment.

  Though he did not know it, he still retained the self-image of a Tobias ten years gone, dapper and impressive and had not yet adjusted to the image that others perceived. At the age of thirty the only impressive thing about Tobias was the armband sewn on his tunic. His hair had become spare and lanky, his face was pouchy and sallow. At times his eyes were hot and burning, at others they were boundlessly abstracted.

  It was commonly said that the souls and bodies of magicians were quickly used up, but poor Tobias was ahead of his time.

  An even more common belief said that burning eyes were the product of the priestly obligation of celibacy. This, however, could not be said to apply in Tobias’ case.

  What remained and would not depart from him was the aura of power and energy inseparable from Father Oakley, whatever his physical state as a man. This was what Joan had told him was reality. He had believed, indeed still did, and so now he had an abundance of reality.

  If the sensitivity and open mind of the old Tobias had still survived he might have reflected that it was a strange sort of ‘reality’ that so set him apart from everyone else and left him to eat his meals in solitude. As it was, he didn’t, wouldn’t, perhaps couldn’t, see the paradox.

  In fact he was consumed with a great disgust and anger at himself and the world, and his place in it. It was an easier thing to vent this anger on heretics than to think …

  And it was a luxury for him to allow such free rein to his feelings. In the five or so years since his ordination Tobias had maintained an icily level temperament which had served him well. With Baron Philby’s invaluable patronage, and his own undeniable ability, no barriers could be raised against his rapid advancement.

  With letters of recommendation and introduction preceding him at every step, his passage through the records and appointments office of the Archbishop of London had been mercifully short; within a couple of weeks his path had been directed westward.

  In the establishment of the Bishop of Llandaff, a turbulent part of the world, Tobias’ quiet, unquestioning efficiency had been readily appreciated. To the over-worked and over-stretched department of the Dean Temporal a man who would quietly accept orders and then not reappear until they were fully carried out was a godsend.

  Tobias earned his spurs in the slave plantations of the Gower peninsula. With a tiny number of troops he put down an embryonic rising by the Welsh-speaking bonded workers and restored the area to peace and proper order with what was, by contemporary standards, a remarkable degree of moderation. He was voted a donative sum by the grateful Irish shareholders of the Plantation companies and when he returned to Llandaff his promotion to Assistant Master of Magic was assured. But before he fully and exclusively devoted himself to single-minded advancement, a vista he thought to be boundless, he felt the need for one final and thorough purging of his pent-up energies.

  It was all terribly illogical but true for all that.

/>   Therefore the news of the unrest in the East leading to the declaration of Crusade had been the answer to Tobias’ prayers. He had applied for leave of absence and the Dean Temporal and Bishop, although surprised at such a move from a man who had never declared any enthusiasm before, had had little alternative but to release him.

  Thus at the height of his outward success and the maturity of his plans, Tobias had travelled back east on a pack-horse to vent his unadmitted self-disgust and frustration on his fellow man.

  Within a few years he knew he would reach Master of Magic rank and any number of indiscretions bar heresy would then be forgiven him; but until that time he must perforce be a model of orthodoxy as at the Wesley monastery. This holiday, this indulgence of his grossest tastes and more violent longings should last him until his position made him entirely beyond human reproach.

  So thinking, he watched the press-ganged butchers from Wantage and Earley and the volunteer sadists from among the Crusaders moving within the prisoner pen where several thousand heretics were being kept after their capture by the cavalry that day. Since they were too expensive to feed, they were being led out one by one to have their noses slit and right hand removed. (What about left handers? Tobias thought.)

  A few brave or cowardly souls refused to come out and so were shot down. In the pen were the rank and file; Army pastors or gentry-cum-officers had already been weeded out to be mind-mangled by Tobias’ kin or bodily abused in more conventional ways by Army inquisitors.

  The noise arising from the pen beggared adequate description but fell on the deaf ears of the captors who lacked imagination enough to stand in their victims’ shoes. There were a number of women in the pen and these were sorted out, for they had a practical use. However such usage would but delay their fate; in matters of heresy, punishment in this world or the next could not be mitigated on grounds of sex. Tobias saw none that he wanted, nor was he in the mood. After finishing another cigar he wandered on.