‘If you want.’ John handed him the knife.
Charles took the knife and used the point to carve letters out of the bark. ‘That’s John,’ he said, spelling the letters out. ‘And this is William.’ Again, he carved out the letters. ‘And this is Charles.’ The three names were carved in a line. He gave the knife back to John. ‘Did you know that all three of our names are the names of kings of England?’ John shook his head. ‘King John lived more than four hundred years ago; there have been two King Williams, who lived even longer ago, about six hundred years ago; and one King Charles, who was our last king.’
‘Was he the king whose head was chopped off?’
‘He was.’
William tapped John on the shoulder and put his finger to his lips. He pointed through the leaves to three men who were approaching the tree. They wore round helmets and leather jackets and carried swords and muskets. They were soldiers. He watched them come nearer. When they reached the tree, they stopped and leant against its trunk.
‘We’ll never find him, even if he is still hereabouts,’ said one of the soldiers. ‘There’s a hundred places for him to hide.’
‘You’re right, Jethro. He could be anywhere. Even in this wood.’
‘Well, I’m not going in there to look,’ said the third man, taking a small flask out of his pocket and holding it to his mouth. ‘That’s better.’ He belched loudly and passed the flask to one of the others who drank from it and passed it on to the third man. John glanced at William, who motioned to him to be quiet.
The three soldiers rested their muskets against the trunk of the tree and stood there, passing the flask to each other and taking sips from it. From no more than the height of the forge above them, it was easy to make out what they were saying.
‘They put up a good fight, the Scots,’ said one.
‘They did, but it didn’t last long,’ replied another. ‘Once we turned their guns on to the town, it was as good as over.’
‘The townsfolk didn’t seem to care who won as long as it was quick,’ said the third. ‘They’re sick of fighting, like the rest of us.’
‘Well then, we’d best find Charles Stuart and lock him in the Tower, so we can all go home. There’s much to do before winter.’
‘Or, better still, cut his head off like his father. Then there’ll be no more kings to keep us from our families.’ The soldier picked up his flintlock. ‘Come on, we’d best get back or we’ll be missed. We’ll say we searched the wood but there was no sign of him.’
‘Who were they looking for?’ whispered John, as they watched the soldiers walk off.
‘The king,’ replied William.
‘But the king’s run off to Wales. He’s not here. Why are they looking here?’ Neither of the men answered. ‘He’s not here, is he?’
‘May I see your knife again, John?’ asked William. John handed it to him. William looked very sad. The soldiers must have upset him. He took the knife and tested its point on his thumb. Then he began to speak very quietly under his breath in words that John did not know. The words had the rhythm of the prayers they said in church on Sundays, a sort of up and down sound like wind rustling grass. John watched William, wondering what he was doing.
While William was speaking quietly, Charles put his hands over his friend’s hands and shook his head. ‘No, William.’
‘Sire,’ replied William, ‘the risk is great.’
‘The risk of damnation is greater. And John is our friend, aren’t you, John?’ John did not know what they were talking about. ‘John will tell no-one about finding us in his tree because, if he did, other people would know about the tree and it wouldn’t be his anymore. Is that not right, John?’
John thought about what Charles had said. He was right. If he told his father about William and Charles, he might want to see the tree, and read the names carved on the trunk. He did not want his father to do that. ‘I shan’t tell anyone,’ he said. ‘Can I have my knife back?’
‘Not even your mother or father or your sister?’ asked William.
‘No. Especially not my sister.’
William passed him the knife and they sat in silence – the two men on the thick branch which formed half of the fork, John on a thinner one. Soon Charles’s eyes closed and he leant his head against the trunk of the tree. John thought he was asleep, and a sleeping man might easily fall out of a tree. He whispered to William. ‘Should we wake him?’
William shook his head. ‘No, leave him to rest. He has travelled a long way and is tired. He will wake up soon enough.’
John wondered where Charles had travelled from but did not ask. He cut another slim branch and began to whittle it. He had nearly finished when Charles’s eyes opened. He rubbed them with his sleeve and grinned at John. ‘I must have fallen asleep for a moment.’
‘You did,’ replied John, putting his figure in the hole with the others. ‘I must go home now or my mother will be cross. She doesn’t like me out too long.’
‘Goodbye then, John,’ said Charles. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet again one day. Be sure to keep our secret.’
John nodded. ‘I will. Goodbye.’ He climbed down the tree, waved up into the branches, and made his way round the wood. He jumped over the stone wall and ran down the lane. He passed another group of soldiers, but they took no notice of him.
When John reached the cottage, his father had returned from the Fox and Hounds and was sitting at the table in the kitchen. ‘There’s talk of him turning back at the border and making for these parts. He’s plenty of supporters around here who might hide him.’
‘There are soldiers all over the place,’ said John’s mother. ‘They must have reason to think he’s here.’
‘Is it the king you’re talking about? asked John.
His father eyed him sharply. ‘Best not to know, John. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.’
John ate his dinner in silence, thinking about the two men he had found hiding in his tree. William and Charles, they said their names were. Woodsmen, they said, but they had no knives. Two woodsmen without knives in his tree. It was a strange thing.
Just before he went to bed, John asked his father, ‘What is the king’s name?’
‘The same as his father’s,’ replied his father. ‘Charles.’
‘Has he got a friend called William?’
‘That’s an odd question. I expect so. It’s a common enough name.’
John smiled. Now he had a new secret.
THE CASTLE
On the south wall of the chancel in St Martin’s Church in Ruislip, there is a monument with this inscription:
To the memory of Mary, Lady Bankes, the only daughter of Ralph Hawtery, of Riselip, in the county of Middlesex, esq., the wife and widow of Sir John Bankes, knight, late Lord Chief Justice of His Majesty’s court of Common Pleas, and of the Privy Council of His Majesty King Charles I of blessed memory, who having had the honour to have borne with a constancy and courage above her sex, a noble proportion of the late calamities, and the restitution of the government, with great peace of mind laid down her most desired life the 11th day of April 1661. Sir Ralph Bankes her son and heir hath dedicated this.
June 1645
By the flickering light of a wax candle – she could not abide the foul smell of tallow and even in these harsh times would not allow it to be burned in the castle – Mary Bankes looked into the dark eyes of the diminutive Queen Henrietta Maria and saw unshakeable determination. It was no wonder that the four thousand men the queen had recruited on her way from Hull to join the king in Oxford had christened her the ‘Generalissimo’.
Sir Anthony Van Dyck’s portrait of the queen – resplendent in blue satin, her hair in lustrous ringlets – had been given to Mary’s husband by the king and now hung between the packed bookshelves in his library. From his days as a young barrister at Gray’s Inn, Sir John had been an avid collector of books and had loved nothing more than to spend an evening by the fire reading quietly or, sometimes, aloud to his
children. Now he had gone, but the shelves were still filled with rows of fine leatherbound volumes which would pass in due course to their eldest son, named, as was the family custom, after his father.
Not for Sir John the crossed swords, shields and coats-of-arms that adorned other castles. For the Bankes family, Corfe Castle in Dorset, grand as it was, was home, and they had furnished it with books, paintings, embroideries and furniture of the highest quality, as befitted their station and that of a home with a distinguished, royal history.
Begun by William the Conqueror, improved and extended by King John and King Edward I, it had been sold by Queen Elizabeth – a woman, thought Lady Mary, cut from the very same cloth as Henrietta Maria – to her courtier, Sir Christopher Hatton, and from him had passed through his nephew to the Lord Chief Justice, Sir Edward Coke, and thence to Sir John Bankes. Mary had studied the history of the castle and could recount all its stories. To her, Corfe’s history mirrored that of England itself. And now, like England, it was under siege.
John Bankes, the son of a wealthy Keswick merchant, had become a Member of Parliament at the age of twenty-six and had subsequently held the offices of Attorney General, Chief Justice of the Common Pleas and Privy Councillor. Mary had been proud not only of her husband’s rise to a position at the king’s side but also of his reputation for even-handedness and the dispensation of justice to all.
When, in August of 1642, news had arrived that the king had raised his standard at Nottingham, John and Mary had been in no doubt as to the legitimacy of the king’s actions or of his ultimate victory over John Pym’s rebels. In Parliament he had argued against both Pym and Hampden, not least in support of the king’s unpopular ship-money tax.
In November John had returned to his alma mater,Oxford, where the king had set up his parliament, and had spent much of the last two years there, leaving the defence of Corfe in Mary’s hands. For all his loyalty to the king, Mary knew that her husband would not have done so without being sure of her steadfastness.
She had prayed daily for the strength that Queen Henrietta Maria had shown in support of her husband and had promised John that she would not let the castle fall into unworthy hands. So far, that promise had been kept. Under her direction, a troop of fewer than eighty men had survived a long siege and beaten off every attack on the castle by the Parliamentarians. Gunpowder, scaling ladders, cannon – all had failed. But since John’s death at Christmas she had begun to have the first glimmerings of doubt.
The library door creaked opened and Mary turned sharply. ‘Ah, Robert, what news do you bring?’ she asked, seeing who it was. Robert Lawrence, captain of the castle guard, was a tall young man, fair complexioned and clean shaven. She had relied heavily upon him during the darkest days of the war.
Robert bowed. ‘My apologies, madam, I had not meant to startle you. Patrick has returned with intelligence. I thought you would wish to see him.’ Patrick Flavin – a farrier with an Irish name but the soft voice of a man of Dorset, who had remained at the castle during lulls in the fighting when he might easily have slipped away – had volunteered to fetch intelligence from the village. On dark nights, he climbed down a knotted rope from a sally-port on the west wall, made his way to the cottage of the village sexton, a Royalist sympathiser, and brought back whatever news there was. Young and nimble, climbing back up the rope presented no great problem, but the risk of capture was great and Mary was grateful to him for his service. But for the brave farrier, their isolation would have been all the more burdensome. She pretended not to know that the sexton’s daughter was a comely young lady, much admired by the youth of the town.
‘Yes, Robert, bring him in. I would know what is happening in the country, whether it be good news or bad.’
Robert opened the door and Flavin entered carrying another candle. He had been waiting outside to be summoned. ‘So, Patrick,’ said Mary, ‘you are returned unharmed and I thank God for it. What have you to tell us?’
‘The news is not good, my lady,’ replied the farrier quietly. ‘The rebels are reinforcing their garrison at Wareham with troops from Weymouth and Poole.’ The ancient town of Wareham, which guarded the road into Purbeck, had been surrendered to Parliamentary forces in August the previous year, leaving Corfe the only Dorset town still in Royalist hands. Lady Mary had been outraged at news of the capitulation and had sent an angry message to the governor, Colonel Henry O’Brien, berating him for not fighting on. ‘I fear we must expect more attacks on the castle, madam.’
‘I fear we must, unless there is better news from elsewhere. What of the negotiations?’
‘The king has rejected the rebels’ demands and remains in Oxford.’
Lady Mary sighed. ‘How long I wonder before Oxford University and Corfe Castle are the only places still loyal to the crown?’
‘We still hold Bristol,’ said Robert, with a smile. ‘And Prince Rupert still leads his troops in the Midlands. All is not lost.’
‘I pray you are right. Any other word, Patrick?’ asked Mary.
‘I think they might be preparing to try their siege engines again. I heard a whisper.’
Mary and Robert laughed as one. ‘Those things!’ she exclaimed. ‘King Arthur could have done better. Do you recall how pitiful they were, Robert?’
‘I do. The boar and the sow. How they thought they could approach the walls protected by little more than sheepskins, I do not know. It was a job to stop the men laughing long enough to fire their muskets.’
The engines, named by the defenders ‘the boar’ and ‘the sow’, one large, the other smaller, had been fashioned from wheeled mining covers, their sides covered in sheepskins. The wretches trying to push them into place under the wall to lay explosive charges had been sent tumbling back down the slope with musket balls in their feet and legs and all manner of noxious waste dripping from the covers. It had been, for the defenders, one of the lighter moments of the last two years.
‘Let us hope that their design has not improved,’ said Mary. ‘Thank you, Patrick. Again, you have done well.’ When Patrick had bowed and taken his leave, she lit another candle and invited Robert to sit. ‘I would offer you wine, Robert, but you know the store is empty.’
‘No matter. I will ask Patrick to bring back a bottle or two next time.’
For a moment they were silent. Mary sat with her hands clasped on her lap. When she spoke her voice held a hint of tears. ‘How I miss John and the boys. I think of them every day.’
‘The boys are safer with their sister. You were right to send them there.’ Alice, the eldest of the Bankes children, was married to Sir John Borlase and lived in Oxford. The five boys had been sent there at the beginning of the war and had remained there as it dragged on. At least their father had been close by.
‘I know, yet their absence is hard to bear. Sometimes I wonder if the time has not come to seek terms and for us all to join them in Oxford.’
‘You vowed to defend the castle, my Lady, and you have done so with great courage. What is weakening your resolve?’
‘John is dead and the tide of the war has been turning against us. One heavy defeat and we will surely be beaten. What then of England, I wonder?’
‘But your vow, your family, this castle. What of them?’
‘I vowed not to let the castle fall into undeserving hands, but much has changed since then. Would it not be better now to hand it over voluntarily than to see it taken from us or, worse, reduced to rubble? And there are the girls and our servants to think of. Should I not do what is necessary to protect them?’
‘On that I cannot advise you. King or family? It is a choice that many have had to make. What would Sir John advise if he were here?’
For a moment or two, Mary considered. ‘I believe he would expect me to fight on.’
‘Then fight on you must.’
* * *
Colonel Robert Butler, governor of Wareham, was in a foul mood. Yet another letter had arrived from London demanding to know why Corfe Castle wa
s still in Royalist hands when Wareham, Weymouth, Dorchester and Poole were safely under the control of Parliament. Lord Fairfax – ‘Black Tom’ – who had taken over from the Earl of Essex as overall commander of the Parliamentary Army, would brook no more delay. He had even suggested that now that Sir John Bankes was dead, his widow could be persuaded to surrender.
The colonel threw down the letter and thumped his fist on the inn table. ‘The noble lord has never faced that woman. She has held the castle for more than two years without her husband. How the devil does he think I am going to persuade her to surrender now?’
Guy Foster, captain of horse, had seen the colonel in such a mood before and kept his voice calm. ‘We must think of something, Colonel, or Lord Fairfax will send Cromwell or Waller to do the job for us.’
Butler stood up. ‘Such a humiliation cannot be allowed. You and I will travel this afternoon to Corfe. Prepare a troop to accompany us.’
After an easy six-mile ride across the Dorset countryside, the troop cantered into Corfe while the sun was still high. On one of two huge hills stood the castle, dominating the town and the fields around it. King William had chosen the site well and even from a distance the strength of its defences was evident. It was no wonder that the castle garrison had laughed when thirty-two-pound balls fired from demi-cannon had bounced harmlessly off the walls.
Three of the castle’s outer walls rose from steep, rocky banks, making a successful attack on them well-nigh impossible. Attackers would find themselves pelted with stones, timbers and burning embers while being fired at from behind the crenellations or from the towers placed around the walls. It did not take a trained musketeer to throw missiles down on to heads, so every woman and child in the castle would be put to work if necessary. The defenders were safe as long as they had food and water and held the gatehouse at the southern end of the castle grounds. That was protected by two huge oak gates with towers on either side and was guarded day and night. Every attempt on the gates had failed.
The castle keep stood at the north end of the enclosure, surrounded by an inner wall as thick as the outer. Between the keep and the outer wall was a wide ditch with grazing for sheep and cattle. Within the inner wall a deep well provided unlimited fresh water. Corfe Castle, strengthened and re-strengthened over the centuries, had never been taken. Nor, nearly six hundred years after the first stone had been laid, did it show any sign of being taken.
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