They were still making nails mid-morning when a man arrived with Jamie’s saddlebags. He tossed them down on the dirt floor of the forge with a thump, then stood watching as Jamie picked them up, unlatched them, and carefully inspected the contents. The sheaf of Lucy’s letters was still there amid the dirty shirts and stockings, but the ribbon that tied the bundle together was missing, and the papers were shuffled and bent. He stared a moment angrily, imagining Barker jeering at Lucy’s endearments – then decided not to make an issue of it. The letters could have been disarranged by somebody checking what the pack actually contained. He touched the sheaf to his lips, then set it gently back in its place before turning to thank the messenger.
The man nodded stiffly, frowning. ‘I was given those by Isaiah Barker. He told me I was of a height with the owner, who’d been killed upon the road.’
Jamie straightened, looking at the other more closely. They were indeed much of a height. Barker, shorter and stouter, would have found the shirts a poor fit. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you.’
The messenger brushed that aside. ‘I am not so poor as to grieve for a few shirts! I . . .’ He stopped.
He was uneasy about Barker, Jamie realized. The lieutenant clearly had taken another man’s property, and left this man the awkward task of returning it. Barker, however, was presumably a friend or troop-mate, and the messenger didn’t want to think ill of him.
‘He thought you dead,’ the messenger said at last.
‘Aye,’ agreed Jamie, ‘for he rode off on my horse, never expecting that the malignants would show me any mercy. He was a brave bully on the road, when I was under his command and could not raise my hand to him, but when we met up with the enemy he was in such haste to run away that he threw me to them as a man might toss a bone to a pack of dogs, to delay them. He is a coward and a knave.’
Barker’s friend stared, anger and doubt mixed on his face. At the forge, Towlend had set down his hammer and was staring as well. Jamie saw that he’d committed himself further than he’d intended. He did not regret it.
‘I will tell him you say so,’ replied the messenger, at last.
‘Do so! If he wishes to dispute it, he knows where to find me.’
When Barker’s friend had gone, Towlend gave Jamie a look of concern. ‘He won’t fight you.’
Jamie shrugged. ‘I spoke no challenge.’
Towlend flattened the head of a nail and tossed it into the waiting case. ‘“Coward and knave”?’
‘Let him challenge me, if he chooses.’
Towlend raised his eyebrows. ‘He’s a lieutenant. You’re a common soldier. He’s more likely to horsewhip you.’
Jamie shook his head. ‘He missed his chance of that upon the road, when I was under his orders. Now he must fight me or make his peace. My blood is as good as his!’
There was a silence, and then Towlend asked cautiously, ‘You say you’re a gentleman?’
Jamie hesitated. He’d been open about his family when he first enlisted. He’d looked like a gentleman’s son then, though – a handsome impetuous twenty-year-old in a fine coat, sword and pistol of the best, mounted, God help him, on a good horse. Naseby had wrecked him and killed the horse. He’d kept quiet about his family after that: he’d told himself that it was to avoid embarrassment over money, but he now admitted to himself that it had been because of his disfigurement.
‘I am a gentleman’s son,’ he now said defiantly. ‘Lieutenant Barker knows as much, too, for he’s met my brother, who’s heir to the estate.’
Towlend puffed out his breath in a long sigh. ‘Well!’ After a moment he added, ‘Then you’re right. He must either explain himself or fight. If he fails of it, he accepts the name of coward.’ He snorted, picked up his hammer again. ‘I doubt this comes to a meeting.’
Jamie eyed his workmate a moment warily, suspecting that Towlend meant to report the matter to the colonel. Duelling was never legal, but the Army frowned on it more heavily than did the Law. It was bad for morale, and blacksmiths and dispatch riders were too useful to be thrown away on affairs of honour. He wondered whether he should swear the other man to silence. No: the demand might sour things between them, and if Towlend refused to swear what could he do about it?
He wanted to fight Isaiah Barker and finally wipe the sneer off that proud face. All the taunts along the road still stung, and the memory of the look on the lieutenant’s face at the inn burned like a brand. He was confident he could beat the man. He’d learned to use a sword when he was a boy, and had always won most of his bouts. It was true he was out of practice, and that he was blinded on the right side – but Barker hadn’t struck him as a fighter.
Jamie abruptly remembered that Barker was Ireton’s man. Kill or injure him, and there would be a price. Maybe it would be better if Towlend did report the matter to Rainsborough. He was immediately ashamed of the thought. He wondered if he himself were the real coward; he’d begged Greencoat for mercy, and now, it seemed, he was afraid of Henry Ireton.
Wondering and worrying was no use. He would fight Barker, or he wouldn’t. He would die, or live with the consequences. He took a deep breath, gave Towlend a nod, and went back to work.
Barker’s answer to the charge of cowardice came that evening. A Lieutenant Russell arrived at Rainsborough’s encampment asking to speak to Mr Hudson. Jamie left the campfire with him. It was still raining, but he didn’t dare take Russell to the forge, which – because it was warm and dry – was crowded with cold wet men eating their suppers. Instead he led the other man to a spot among some supper-emptied tents. The rain drummed on the wet canvas all around them.
‘I come from my friend Lieutenant Barker,’ said Russell formally. He hesitated. ‘For my own part, I deplore the errand. We are all enemies to the malignants in the city yonder. We ought not to fight among ourselves!’
Jamie inclined his head courteously. ‘I am willing to live in peace with any man.’
‘Then you will apologize?’ Russell asked eagerly.
‘For what offence?’
Russell let out a slight hiss and peered at his face through the darkness. ‘For the names “coward” and “knave” you flung at him!’
‘Your friend treacherously threw me to the enemy and galloped off leaving me to die. I know no word for that but cowardice.’
‘You might call it “duty”,’ replied Russell. ‘He carried dispatches. He was obliged to keep them from the enemy at all costs. Come, apologize and make peace! We are all soldiers in the same Army: to fight among ourselves is no better than mutiny!’
‘If your friend truly wants to make peace, I am willing. Let him apologize for the insults he heaped on me all our journey together, and let him explain his conduct the other night. I would hear him. If all he wants, though, is for me to beg his pardon – then, no, I will not. I have done no more than speak my mind about his conduct. It is up to Lieutenant Barker to defend his own doings, if he can.’
There was a silence full of the steady beat of the rain. Jamie understood, without a word said, that Barker would not and could not apologize. Even his friends had doubts about his conduct: to apologize would be to confess. Russell sighed. ‘He believes you to be a gentleman?’ His voice made it a question.
‘Aye,’ agreed Jamie. ‘I am the son of Mr George Hudson, of Bourne Manor in Lincolnshire.’
Russell nodded. Jamie wondered if he’d ever heard of the Hudsons of Bourne. It seemed unlikely. His status was being accepted because Barker was willing to fight him. ‘If you are a gentleman,’ Russell continued, ‘you know that the title of “coward” is intolerable to any man of honour. If you will not apologize, you must give him satisfaction.’
‘I am very willing to do so. Allow me to find a second and a sword, and I am at Lieutenant Barker’s service.’
He didn’t ask Towlend to be his second. He feared that this was because he wanted his workmate to be free to report the matter, though he told himself that it would be wrong to risk the regiment’s only other
blacksmith – seconds were sometimes called upon to fight alongside their principles. He went instead to one of the more outspoken Levellers he’d met, a skinny pock-faced ensign named Philibert Bailey. He explained the situation and repeated some of the things Barker had said on the road. Bailey was fiercely indignant and agreed to act for him. He went off with Russell that same evening to make the arrangements.
Finding a place for a duel, however, proved unexpectedly difficult. Neither Bailey nor Russell was familiar with the surrounding countryside, which was so full of soldiers that it was hard to ensure the necessary seclusion. The two were forced to agree to meet again in three days’ time, and to keep their eyes open for a good spot in the interim.
Jamie arranged to borrow a rapier from one of Bailey’s friends, and the next few evenings he sparred with anyone who was willing. He was indeed out of practice, but still won more often than not. Height, strength, and a ferocious left-handed attack compensated for lack of skill. He lost, though, every time an opponent managed to get on his blind side. He resolved to end the duel without giving Barker that opportunity.
He wrote a letter to Lucy, but was unable to tell her about Lieutenant Barker and the impending duel. It wasn’t safe to mention such matters when the letter might be read before it reached its recipient. If the meeting turned out badly, she’d get the news all too soon.
He wondered how long it would be before he received a reply. He’d had no letter from his wife since early in June. He imagined her bent over a letter, a tendril of black hair, escaped from beneath her cap, brushing the curve of her cheek. The surge of longing was painful. It had been three weeks? Four perhaps, since he’d had any news from her.
His daydream turned suddenly and queasily into a vision of his old rival Ned Trebet leaning over Lucy, brushing the tendril of hair gently aside, and kissing her. He told himself angrily that Lucy would slap Ned’s face if he tried any such thing – which he wouldn’t: he was an honest man. Lucy was honest, too, true as steel. The absence of letters didn’t mean she had forgotten him, still less that she was betraying him. It meant only that a letter had gone astray – and probably more letters after it were being used to light fires for his previous regiment, because nobody would pay to send them on. He would have to wait until she knew his new regiment before he could expect to hear from her again.
He pushed aside the miserable thought that if the duel went badly, he would not read her next letter, either. He was not afraid of Isaiah Barker. As for Barker’s master – well, Ireton was unlikely to go so far as to kill him.
The next day, Philibert Bailey appeared at the forge, drew Jamie aside, and whispered that he and Russell had found a good place for a duel. The adversaries could meet next day, at the conventional time of dawn.
The place was about three miles away. Jamie thought of borrowing a horse, but decided against it: there were already too many people who knew about the encounter. Instead he and Bailey slipped out of the camp well before dawn – Bailey knew the password for the sentries – and set out on foot in the dark. It was still raining. They’d brought lanterns, but the weak light wasn’t enough to let them avoid all the mud puddles. After the first mile they were both soaked to the skin and squelching. After the second mile Bailey began to swear steadily under his breath. Most of it was variations on ‘God damn this rain!’ but there was a fair amount of ‘God damn duels!’ as well.
The spot Bailey and Russell had fixed on was an empty barn to the northeast of Fort Rainsborough. Jamie and Bailey arrived just as the darkness began to ebb, and found the barn deserted. They went in, set their lanterns down on a clear patch of floor, and took off their boots to wring the water out of their stockings. Bailey’s face was sour.
‘I am sorry,’ Jamie said awkwardly.
Bailey looked at him grimly a moment, then sighed. ‘You’re not to blame for the rain.’
They sat in silence, hugging themselves for warmth, their wet clothes getting colder and colder. ‘You’re father’s a gentleman?’ Bailey asked.
Jamie nodded and answered the implied question. ‘I was his third son.’
Bailey nodded. ‘My father was a younger son, too. He was reckoned a gentleman, but though I followed his trade I was never any such thing.’ He snorted. ‘Gentle birth’s a strange mystery!’
Jamie grunted agreement.
‘It can come and go,’ Bailey continued, warming to his subject. ‘A man may be born among the yeomanry, an old uncle dies, and poof! suddenly he’s a gentleman! Or sometimes it depends upon place, for a man who’s but a worthless younger son would be a lordly heir were he born in the next county, where they go by borough English.’
‘Ireton,’ said Jamie.
‘Eh?’
‘Commissary-General Ireton. They go by borough English in the part of Nottinghamshire where he was born: the youngest son inherits all. He’s an eldest son.’ He’d learned this detail while he was in prison, after Ware, and remembered it, as he remembered everything to do with Ireton. It explained something about the man, he thought. There was a sense of grievance there, a Leveller-like desire to change the world’s rules, without the Levellers’ commitment to making those rules bear equally on all. The Commissary-General’s cold eyes were sharp in his mind. He wondered again what Ireton would do if Barker died.
‘That I didn’t know,’ said Bailey. ‘Eh! I’d wager you wish they did that in – where was it you hail from?’
‘Lincolnshire. I’ve no wish for my brother’s place.’
Bailey gave him a sceptical look. Jamie considered the question a moment, then said slowly, ‘Robert always had to be young Mr Hudson. I had more freedom.’
‘But less money, I’ll warrant!’
‘Aye,’ agreed Jamie, then added, to quash any rumours that he was simply mean about money, ‘and even less after I enlisted against my father’s wishes. I’d not have done so, though, had I preferred money to freedom.’
‘Ah!’ said Bailey, as though this made sense. ‘My father wasn’t pleased with me, neither. My uncle had a Commission of Array from the King, and my father thought I should go join his troop. He always licked his brother’s boots, and agreed with every opinion that pompous jackass brayed, though to my mind he was much the better man.’ He was quiet a moment, then added, ‘He was grieved to the heart when I went to fight for Parliament. I’ve not heard any word of him these three years. God grant he’s well!’
‘I saw my brother lately,’ said Jamie. ‘It was the first time since the war began. I’d thought he would be the same as he used to be, because he ’scaped the fighting – but he was much changed.’
Bailey grimaced. ‘I think no one in England has ’scaped the misery of this war. I think truly there is nothing on earth so foul and unnatural as civil war.’
Jamie nodded.
‘If no good comes of all this,’ Bailey went on softly, ‘if injustice and oppression are left in their old places, then I think we will all be damned. The evil we have done these last seven years will condemn us everlastingly, unless we have some good to set against it.’
There was a sound of horses outside. Jamie got to his feet, his good hand on the hilt of the borrowed rapier. Two men rode into the barn, ducking their heads under the lintel. When they straightened, the light of the lanterns they carried showed that they were indeed Barker and his second Russell. Barker glanced around, saw Jamie, and froze a moment, his eyes glittering. Jamie touched his hat.
Barker looked away, then stared at Jamie’s feet, which were bare. Jamie waved a hand toward his lantern, which was draped with his soaked stockings. ‘It was a wet walk,’ he said.
Barker said nothing, only sat his horse stiffly. His friend Russell dismounted, led his horse over to one side of the barn, and tended it, slipping the bit out of its mouth and loosening the girth to make it comfortable. Barker, after another unhappy glance at Jamie, went to join him. Jamie did some stretches to warm up his cold muscles while he waited.
Presently Russell came over. ‘My fr
iend says that he is still prepared to accept an apology.’
‘Will he offer one?’ Jamie asked.
‘Don’t play the fool!’ snapped Russell impatiently. ‘This meeting should not be taking place. Our swords ought to be used on the malignants!’
‘I have said I am willing to make peace,’ Jamie replied mildly. ‘I would forgive your friend, if he asked it.’
Barker tied off his mount’s reins with a jerk and came over. ‘I was carrying dispatches!’ he shouted, glaring.
Jamie regarded him in silence.
The lieutenant flushed. ‘I had no choice! I dared not let them take the dispatches!’
‘Your duty forced you to be a coward?’ asked Bailey sarcastically.
Barker spat. ‘Easily said, by a man who was safe in camp among his friends!’
Jamie stirred. ‘When we went out of that inn,’ he said softly, ‘we were before the enemy. Together we could have slammed the door shut in their faces, and made our escape while they broke it down.’
A Corruptible Crown Page 8