A Soldier of Substance

by D. W. Bradbridge

  A Soldier of Substance

  by D.W. Bradbridge

  First Kindle edition

  © 2014 D. W. Bradbridge

  All rights reserved. Apart from any use under UK copyright law no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

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  Contents

  Map: Bolton, 1644

  Map: Chester, 1644

  Key Characters

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Bibliographical Notes

  Glossary

  Map: Bolton, 1644

  Map: Chester, 1644

  Key Characters

  In Nantwich:

  Daniel Cheswis - Wich house owner, cheese merchant, and reluctant constable of Nantwich

  Elizabeth Brett - Daniel’s sweetheart

  Ralph Brett - Elizabeth’s son from her first marriage

  Cecilia Padgett - Daniel’s housekeeper

  Amy Padgett - Cecilia’s granddaughter

  Jack Wade - Daniel’s apprentice

  Alexander Clowes - Chandler, bellman, and Daniel’s best friend

  Marjery Clowes - Alexander’s wife

  Simon Cheswis - Daniel’s headstrong younger brother

  Rose Bailey - Simon’s sweetheart

  George Simkins - Shoemaker and master of Simon Cheswis

  Arthur Sawyer - Constable

  Jack and Robert Skinner - Brothers to Daniel’s former apprentice, James Skinner

  Ezekiel Green - Nantwich’s court clerk

  Sir William Brereton - Commander of parliamentary forces in Cheshire

  Colonel Thomas Croxton - Deputy lieutenant and responsible for the payment of Brereton’s army

  Colonel George Booth - Nantwich garrison commander

  In Chester and around:

  Thomas Corbett - Landlord of The Boot, a tavern-cum-bawdy house

  Charles Corbett - Thomas’ son

  Annie - Madam of the brothel in The Boot

  Roisin Byrne - A whore

  James Skinner - Daniel’s ex-apprentice, kidnapped by the royalists at the Battle of Nantwich

  Jem Bressy - Royalist spy. Skinner’s captor

  William Seaman - Cheese and general goods merchant

  Isabel Seaman - William’s wife

  Katherine Seaman - William’s sister

  Roberts - Footman in William Seaman’s household

  John Gibbons - A servant

  Martha Woodcock - A cook / housekeeper

  Captain Edward Chisnall - (See also under royalist forces at Lathom) Royalist officer. Messenger to the Earl of Derby

  Francis Gamull - Chester merchant and commander of the town guard

  Robert Whitby - Merchant and close relative of Gamull

  Jack Taylor - A glover

  William Ainsworth - A divinity lecturer and preacher

  Samuel Challinor - Blacksmith and farrier at Mickle Trafford

  Randle Holmes - Mayor of Chester

  James Stanley - Seventh Earl of Derby

  In Ormskirk and around:

  John Bootle - Brother of William Bootle

  Jane Bootle - John’s wife

  Marc Le Croix - A Frenchman, and cousin to the Seaman family

  Beatrice Le Croix - Marc’s half sister

  Jenny Reade - A young girl, daughter of Mary Reade, a midwife, who died under torture after being caught smuggling messages into Lathom House

  Old Isaac - A drunkard

  William Nutt - Vicar of Ormskirk

  Inside Lathom House:

  Lady Charlotte de Tremouille - Countess of Derby

  Reverend Samuel Rutter - Private chaplain and close confidant of the Lady Charlotte

  William Farrington - Advisor to the Lady Charlotte

  Captain William Farmer - Major of the House. In charge of the garrison

  Captain Edward Chisnall - (See under Chester) Royalist officer

  Captain Henry Ogle - Royalist officer

  Captain Edward Rawsthorne - Royalist officer

  Captain Molyneux Ratcliffe - Royalist officer

  Captain Richard Fox - Royalist officer

  Ensign Edward Halsall - Junior officer

  Broome - Chief Steward

  Parliamentary Forces at Lathom:

  Sir Thomas Fairfax - Initially in charge of the siege, previously in charge of the parliamentary army at the Battle of Nantwich

  Colonel Alexander Rigby - Siege commander and MP for Wigan. Sworn enemy of the Earl of Derby

  Colonel Ralph Assheton - Parliamentary commander

  Colonel John Moore - Parliamentary commander

  Colonel Peter Egerton - Parliamentary commander

  Colonel Richard Holland - Head of the Parliamentary Committee in Manchester

  Major Thomas Morgan - Welshman, in charge of the artillery at Lathom

  Browne - Chief Engineer to Colonel Rigby

  Major Edward Robinson - Parliamentary officer

  Captain William Bootle - Parliamentary officer, ex-porter within Lord Derby’s household and advisor to Rigby on the interior of Lathom House.

  Captain John Ashurst - Parliamentary officer

  Captain George Sharples - Parliamentary officer

  Captain Duddell - Parliamentary officer

  Captain Richard Davie - Parliamentary officer

  Captain William Dandie - Parliamentary officer

  Lieutenant Dandie - William Dandie’s son

  Lieutenant Lawrence Seaman - Parliamentary officer and son of William Seaman

  In Newark

  Colonel Henry Tillier - Royalist commander of green-coated foot regiment (also at Bolton)

  Sir John Meldrum - Commander of parliamentary forces at Newark

  Major John Lilburne - Well-known political activist and writer – a parliamentary officer at Newark

  In Bolton:

  Henry Oulton - A wealthy merchant

  Horrocks - Oulton’s steward

  Colonel Shuttleworth - Parliamentary Commander of Horse

  Prince Rupert of The Rhine - Much-feared cavalry commander in charge of the royalist forces at Bolton

  Colonel Henry Warren - Royalist infantry commander. Had previously been presen
t at Nantwich

  Sir Thomas Tyldesley - Royalist commander in charge of red-coated regiment of foot

  Colonel Robert Broughton - Royalist commander in command of green-coated infantry regiment

  Where they raised midst sap and siege

  The banners of their rightful liege

  At their she-captain’s call

  Who, miracle of womankind,

  Lent mettle to the meanest hind

  That mann’d her castle wall.

  Discourse of the Warr in Lancashire, p xiii – E. Robinson and W. Beamont, Chatham Society, 1864

  On Saturday December 6th after the house was up, there came letters to the Speaker of the Commons’ House of the surrender of Lathom House in Lancashire, belonging to the Earl of Derby, which his lady, the Comtesse of Derby, in proving herself of the two a better souldier, hath above these two years kept in opposition to our forces.

  The Perfect Diurnall, December 8th, 1645

  Chapter 1

  Ormskirk, Lancashire – Friday April 26th, 1644

  The Frenchman was woken from fitful slumber by the sound of gunfire. Or at least, that’s what it seemed like to his tired and blunted senses.

  In the confines of the dismal, poorly-lit cellar, which had become the centre of his universe, he had grown so used to silence that the sharp report of the pistol had come as something of a shock, jolting him awake as though he had been poked with a sharp stick. True, he had occasionally heard the distant boom of cannon fire, which told him he was still close to Lathom, but the noise which had just assaulted his eardrums was something different. A bone-rattling crack, so close at hand that it seemed to reverberate through his very being, shaking him free from the stupor brought on by the interminable days of monotony. Despite the sudden and rude awakening, it was a welcome sound, for it told him he was still alive.

  “Merde alors, qu’est-ce qui se passe?” he rasped, the words catching in his parched throat. Blinking rapidly, he puffed out his cheeks and stumbled unsteadily to his feet. “C’est bien quelqu’un qui vient pour me tuer, n’est-ce pas?”

  In truth, he had little idea where he was or how he had got there. He remembered, a long time ago it seemed now, the convivial atmosphere in the tavern and the company of the small group of soldiers from the siege, who had teased him because of his accent. Swiss, they had thought, for he had told them he was from Geneva. After all, to be a Frenchman in England was to run the risk of being held for a papist. It was only partially untrue, for his adopted home town of Bolton had become known as “the Geneva of the North.” He also remembered the smiles of the comely serving wench who had given him the eye and from whom he had hoped to receive a warm and willing reception later that evening. But after that, he remembered nothing.

  He had woken to find himself stripped to his shirt and breeches, robbed of his coin, and sprawled on the floor of this godforsaken prison. At first, he had been tied with shackles to the wall, but after a couple of days, his captor, who always took great care to keep his face hidden with a scarf, had relented, freeing him from his bonds on the understanding that the prisoner was to stand back against the far wall whenever he entered the cell.

  Not that he was there often. Once a day, watery-looking pottage or mouldy cheese and bread had been slipped unceremoniously through the door; but that was all he saw of his gaoler. Indeed, for the last two days, no-one had been to see him at all. Fortunately, the room contained an old, decrepit-looking barrel full of brackish water and a wooden ladle, which had stopped him dying of thirst, but he was desperately hungry and was beginning to wonder whether he would ever get out alive. Sliding over to the door, he counted the notches that he had gouged out of the wood with the end of one of the shackles that he had managed to rip out of the wall. Fifty-two. He had been incarcerated for almost two months. What a mistake it had been to leave Bolton.

  Looking back, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. The town where he had spent his teenage years had taught him to speak fluent English, but, having survived a concerted royalist attack little more than a year ago, it had been becoming a dangerous place to live, especially for a Frenchman with the kind of jet black hair and olive skin that tended to get you mistaken for a Spaniard.

  Those with suspicious minds in that Puritan stronghold had already marked him out as a closet papist, so when it became clear that the Englishman who had brought him up was in fact dying, he had grasped the opportunity to visit his cousins in Ormskirk with open arms. He had been told that the people in West Lancashire adhered more to the old faith than they did in Bolton and that being French would not pose so much of a problem. After all, Lady Derby herself was a Frenchwoman, albeit of Protestant faith. Nonetheless, he had taken no chances. He had arrived at his cousins’ house in sombre Puritan garb. It was ironic, he reflected, that his new black doublet had been stolen, and his plain white shirt was now a filthy shade of grey.

  He was being kept in a cellar – that much he had worked out – for the metal grille located just below the ceiling in one corner of the room, his only source of light, was just above ground level. He knew this because, one day, he had seen a pair of boots walk past; not the simple boots of a farm worker, but high quality bucket-top boots that might be worn by an army officer.

  He knew that the cellar had been used for storing grain at some point, for the stone floor was littered with kernels. He also knew it was facing south-west, because on bright days, the room would be filled with a warm amber glow for twenty minutes in the evening. He looked forward to such days and had taken to bathing in the sun’s rays for as long as the sunlight lasted and until the room was once more pitched into semi-darkness.

  The Frenchman looked up at the grille, and thought he could perceive a slight lightening of the sky, which indicated that dawn was breaking. Alert now, he put his ear to the door. He thought he could hear raised voices above him, but couldn’t be sure. He looked around the room and wondered if there was any way he could position himself to hear better. It sounded like the voices were coming from a room directly above the grille. The Frenchman thought about it for a moment and smiled. If he could re-position the water barrel and climb up so he could put his ear close to the grille, he might be able to ascertain what was going on.

  Wiping the sweat from his hands, he gripped the rim of the barrel and heaved with all his strength. The result was spectacular. The rotting wood of the barrel split with a loud crack, spilling water over the stone floor in a swirling torrent and depositing the Frenchman onto his back, a moment before the barrel, now nearly empty, flipped over onto its side and landed across his legs. The Frenchman howled in pain and frustration.

  Suddenly, there was a second bang up above, like that which had woken him, followed by a door slamming and the sound of feet retreating at speed. The Frenchman wheeled round to see a pair of boots flashing past the grille in the half light. He couldn’t be sure, but they looked like the same pair of bucket-top boots he had seen before.

  It was then that he realised that, although the voices above had ceased, the ominous sound of footsteps could be heard descending the steps to the wooden door of the cellar.

  Groaning, the Frenchman rubbed his shins and pulled himself gingerly to his feet. Grabbing one of the timbers from the barrel as a makeshift weapon, he hobbled over to the door and positioned himself behind it just as the key started to rattle in the lock.

  “Bon,” he said to himself. “C’est ma seule chance. Je devrais en profiter.” It was better to die trying to escape than to perish in this miserable hole.

  As the door opened, he had just enough time to register the fact that he was at a disadvantage of four-to-one before launching himself into the fray, with two months of pent-up aggression.

  Chapter 2

  Three months earlier.

  Nantwich – Thursday February 1st, 1644

  It had never occurred to me that the role I played in solving the series of grim murders that had taken place in Nantwich during the freezing winter of 1643-44 wo
uld mark me out as anything more than a mere petty constable. I had certainly never considered the possibility that simply doing my duty would result in me being known as ‘Sir William Brereton’s man’. But if you were to ask me to identify the day when my life truly changed forever, then it would have to be the day that we cleared out the church.

  During the week following Sir Thomas Fairfax’s victory, St Mary’s, the magnificent sandstone edifice which dominated Nantwich’s main square, had been used as a makeshift prison to house the two hundred and fifty officers, a hundred and twenty women, and fifteen hundred common soldiers taken captive on the battlefield at Acton. Understandably, this had been much to the annoyance of the town’s recently installed Puritan minister, Joshua Welch, who had been mortified at the prospect of hordes of papists desecrating the interior of his church. Not only that; St Mary’s was the town’s only designated place of worship, and so Welch had been forced to preach his twice-daily sermons in Townsend House on Welsh Row, in the gallery of The Crown, and in Lady Norton’s house on Beam Street. Welch was not best pleased, and it showed.