“Two days at most,” I said. “We must attend tomorrow’s market and dispose of a cartload of boots, but I also have some personal business of my own to attend to.”
“You should have no problem with the boots,” said Corbett. “Since Lord Byron returned in defeat, he suffers so much from lack of money, he cannot make provision for his soldiers. As many as seventeen hundred foot have recently landed from Ireland, and many are in sore need of new footwear. They rely in part on the townsfolk to keep them adequately clothed.”
“The town is crowded then?” I asked.
“Full to the brim. Soldiers are lodged in houses at the townsfolk’s expenses. They are hungry, bored, and unruly. It is perhaps as well that Prince Rupert himself will be here soon. No doubt he will call for many of those here to be sent on to Shrewsbury.”
“Rupert is coming here?” I said. “That I would like to see.”
“Aye, within the week, or so I hear. But you’d best make yourselves scarce before then, otherwise you might find yourselves pressed into his service.”
I nodded my thanks and took the pouch from Corbett.
“Forgive my intrusion,” said Corbett, “but you said you had personal business too?”
“Yes. Firstly, I must locate a cheesemonger called William Seaman, with whom I hope to do business.”
“That is easy,” said Corbett. “Seaman’s shop is less than fifty yards from here. Just follow this row along towards the cross, through the Dark Row, and you will find his premises among the buttershops. And secondly?”
“I am searching for a young soldier called Skinner. He was my apprentice and was taken captive during the battle at Nantwich. I assume he has been forced into the service of Lord Byron. I would locate him and return him to his family.”
“That might prove more difficult,” admitted the landlord, “but most of Byron’s foot soldiers who escaped from Nantwich are billeted in Gloverstone, down by the castle.”
I thanked Corbett for his help and excused him so he could go about his business in the tavern. After secreting the pouch under the floorboards as instructed, Alexander and I left the room separately, arranging to meet by the stallboards in front of the tavern. Simon was nowhere to be found and, as neither of us had the inclination to dine in a whorehouse, we took a stroll through the rows with a view to finding something to eat.
It was now early evening and the streets were teeming with people. The Cornmarket Row on the other side of Eastgate was quiet, but some of the undercrofts at street level were busy, and the covered walkways in front of them were crowded with cooks serving all manner of food. Turning left out of The Boot, we passed through Cooks Row, nearly colliding with people transporting food out onto the stallboards on the other side of the first floor walkways outside their shops. Beyond that was the Bakers Row, where the atmosphere was infused with the aroma of yeast and freshly baked bread.
It was the first time that Alexander had been to Chester, and he was fascinated by the row system, which I had been told was unique to the town. The ground floor premises, mostly set slightly below street level, were set back from the street and used largely for storage. In front of them was a covered walkway often used by street vendors. The storey above this overlapped the ground floor walkway, creating the ‘row’ itself, which stretched in front of more shop premises and taverns. The stallboards were on the outer edge of the first floor walkway and used by the shop owners to display their wares. Nobody seemed to know for sure why the rows were created, although I had a suspicion that it had something to do with protecting the populace from the filth that was strewn along the main streets. The main thoroughfare, covered in horse dung, mud, and food waste, was separated from the shop fronts by drainage channels on either side of the street. Access to the shop fronts was provided by iron grids positioned at intervals along the length of the street.
After waking to the end of Eastgate, Alexander and I settled on a tavern called The Mitre, located on the corner of the street which led to the cathedral. There we ate a satisfying meal of bacon and potatoes before returning to our lodgings.
As we entered The Boot, we spotted Simon through a haze of tobacco smoke, sat in a corner with an auburn-haired Irish girl on his knee. The girl, who bore a striking resemblance to Rose Bailey, was introduced as Roisin. The significance of the name was not lost on me.
“Is one rose not enough for you, brother?” I demanded, stiffly. Simon was too drunk to be embarrassed by my comments, so I simply said, “Just make sure you’re ready for market in the morning, that’s all.”
Simon said nothing beyond grinning inanely and waving his tankard at us, so Alexander and I left him to his carousing and retired to our chamber for a night of fitful sleep and constant disturbance.
Chapter 7
Chester – Wednesday March 6th, 1644
We were woken at the crack of dawn by the sound of Charles Corbett depositing a trencher of bread and butter on the floor, together with two tankards of small beer.
“Time to make ready for the market, Mr Simkins,” he said. “Once you’ve eaten, I will help you recover your horse and cart. Your brother, I suspect, will take a little longer to rouse.”
I rubbed my fists into my eyes wearily and scanned the room. Simon, as I suspected, was not there.
“There’s no need for concern,” said Corbett. “He is in one of the other chambers with Roisin.”
I nodded in the bleary-eyed manner only a man who has had less than three hours sleep can manage, and stumbled to my feet. Despite having been kept awake for half the night by the unsavoury sounds of the bawdy house, I was not too tired to register the fact that young Corbett had addressed me by my assumed name. Croxton had evidently felt it safer to hide our true identities even from our allies. At least that way, we could not be easily betrayed.
I angrily tore off a piece of bread and shoved it into my mouth, whilst giving Alexander a gentle poke in the ribs with my foot; for he, too, was having trouble waking up. I was furious with Simon, not just for getting drunk, although that was bad enough, as doing such a thing in the middle of Chester put all our lives at risk, but for his betrayal of Rose Bailey, who I knew loved Simon with a passion. What disturbed me most was the confirmation that, whilst Simon would not think twice about putting his life on the line for the causes he believed in, consideration for the thoughts and well-being of those who loved him were very low on his list of priorities.
I half-expected him to be still asleep when Corbett, Alexander, and I returned an hour later with our cartload of boots, but I found him standing waiting for us on the roadside, with a sheepish look on his face. I had already decided that words would be superfluous that morning, so I merely thanked Corbett for his services, watched the young man disappear up the steps into the row, and motioned for Simon to jump on the back of the cart.
We drove the remaining fifty yards down Eastgate, as far as Chester Cross, and then turned left into Bridge Street, which was the centre of the clothing trade in Chester. Mercers’ Row stretched all the way down the left hand side of the street, as far as the Dee Bridge, while in the centre of the street, stallholders had already begun to set up their pitches for the flax and linen market. On the right hand side of the street was the Corvisers’ Row, where all the shoemakers were located and where we had been allocated a pitch for the day.
We were shown to a small area under one of the walkways, where we busied ourselves with setting up a table to display our wares. Meanwhile, Simon unhitched the carthorse, making sure that the back of the cart was pointing in towards the walkway, so that anyone passing along the covered thoroughfare could see our goods being displayed on both sides as they passed through. The street was teeming with traders, most of whom had come into town from miles around, the lilting tones of Welsh mixing with the slower, more even speech of Cheshire folk.
Once we were satisfied with our pitch, Simon made off to trade with Simkins’ shoemaker contacts in the rows and, as soon as I was satisfied that Alexander co
uld cope with the passing trade unaided, I left him and made my way back towards the cross, for I had business of my own to conduct.
At the cross, I skirted past the Pentice, the timber building attached to the end of St Peters Church, which was being used to store the arms of the Chester trained bands. Avoiding the small group of redcoats guarding the building, I crossed the end of Northgate, climbed the steps on the north side of Eastgate, and emerged into Buttershops Row.
***
William Seaman was the owner of the second of the houses that made up the row of butter and cheese shops that lined this side of Eastgate. His shop front was fairly unassuming, as, like most of the buildings along the street, the house, at row level, had been divided into four narrow lock-up stores, which had been let to other shop holders. Whole cheeses and tubs of butter were laid out on the stallboards on the outer side of the walkway, where a young lad with a Welsh accent, presumably Seaman’s apprentice, was busy cutting one of the full cream cheeses into smaller pieces with a cheese wire.
I was directed into the narrow storeroom, no more than six feet wide, where I found a nervous-looking woman in her thirties, with a long nose and pale complexion, who introduced herself as Katherine Seaman.
“My brother is upstairs, attending to the paperwork for a shipment of goods bound for France,” she explained. “He received your letter and has been expecting you. I will fetch him for you now.” The woman disappeared through a door in the back of the shop and up a flight of stairs, leaving me to inspect the interior of the storeroom.
Although the stallboards in the front of the shop carried only local produce, it was clear that Seaman had interests in a much wider range of goods. Barrels of French wine lined the walls, and the room smelled strongly of spices. I also spotted two barrels of sack, half a dozen small crates of oranges, and on a table in the corner of the room, my attention was drawn to some strange-looking cheeses that I had not seen before. I picked one up and noted that its dark brown rind was marked with a curious tooth-shaped pattern.
“Manchego cheese from the plains of La Mancha in Central Spain,” explained a voice behind me. “The pattern comes from the grass baskets in which they press the curd.”
I wheeled round and was met by the smiling visage of a greying, middle-aged man, his generous mouth betraying a set of uneven, but otherwise healthy-looking teeth.
“You have Spanish cheese, Mr Seaman?” I asked, intrigued.
“Certainly, but only in small quantities, as they are expensive to transport, and not many can afford such luxury,” said Seaman. “Won’t you try some?” The merchant took a knife and cut off a small piece of the pale yellow cheese, which I tasted. The flavour was well-rounded, with a buttery, slightly nutty texture, and an aftertaste I could not quite place.
“Sheep’s cheese,” explained the merchant. “Quite unlike our own Cheshire cheese.”
I nodded. “Most unusual. And you say you import all this stuff?” I added, pointing to the crates of wine and fruit.
“Indeed. I ship fabrics and calf skins to Saint Jean de Luz in France, a port near the Spanish border, and return with French wine, fruits, and spices. The oranges and cheese are transported over from Spain.”
“I see. And the cheese transports well?”
“Certainly. Manchego can be aged for anything up to two years. But tell me,” he said, changing the subject. “You are not here to discuss the merits of Spanish cheese. You knew my friend Thomas Steele, I understand.”
“I did,” I admitted, “although only in the last few days of his life. I am one of the town constables in Nantwich. I visited him in gaol after his arrest. We shared a common interest in the cheese business. You knew him well, I think?”
“I had not seen Thomas for two years,” said Seaman, gravely, “not since he decided to cast his lot with Parliament. I fear a soldier’s life was not for him. A constable, you say? I wondered how you had managed to secure a travel pass.”
I forced a smile and quickly changed the subject, for Seaman had no idea that I had travelled under an assumed name. “It is my ambition to transport our Cheshire cheese to London,” I said. “I’ve heard tell there is a market for it in the capital. Captain Steele said you might be able to help.”
Seaman sniffed and popped another piece of cheese into his mouth. “Once this war is over, it should be possible to ship cheese by sea into London,” he said. “But, of course, shipping anything to London from here is quite impossible under present conditions. Apart from which, I’ve a feeling that for the foreseeable future, we shall be needing all the cheese we can find for our own consumption.”
At that moment, our discussion was interrupted by a clean-shaven, athletically built officer, who entered the store with a confident gait and was immediately recognised by Seaman, who stepped forward and shook his hand effusively.
“Captain Chisnall!” he said. “It has been some time. Welcome back to Chester. What news from Lathom?”
“Lathom is to be besieged,” said the officer, guardedly, eyeing me with suspicion. “I am here to convey the news to his lordship and must return tomorrow. In the meantime, the earl’s steward wishes to order some cheese, wine, and other goods, so I thought I would pay my respects.”
I looked up sharply at the mention of Lathom House, and realised I was in the presence of one of the officers charged with defending Lathom from Sir Thomas Fairfax’s attentions. Seaman, meanwhile, had noticed Chisnall’s demeanour and quickly introduced me.
“Master Cheswis is a fellow cheese merchant from Nantwich,” he explained. In truth, I was still little more than a minor shopkeeper, but I was happy for Seaman to exaggerate my status.
“Captain Edward Chisnall from Chorley,” said the officer, offering his hand, which I took.
“I have relations, who live in Ormskirk, near Lathom House,” explained Seaman. “I have known Captain Chisnall for some time.”
“What brings a Nantwich man to Chester?” asked Chisnall, giving me a searching look that filled me with unease. “That town is a hotbed for rebels.”
“I cannot help the town where I live, sir,” I said, carefully, “but business does not respect the barriers laid down by politics.”
Chisnall smiled evenly. “Maybe,” he said, “but perhaps politics are now setting barriers that cannot be surmounted. Do I take it you support Brereton and his traitorous minions?”
“I am loyal to my king,” I replied, avoiding the direct question, and was grateful when Seaman stepped in.
“I will instruct my boy to deliver his lordship’s order this afternoon, if you would care to leave it with me,” he said.
Chisnall nodded and turned to leave. However, at that precise moment, Katherine Seaman reappeared at the foot of the stairs and gave a gasp of surprise. I turned to look at her and was discomfited to note that she had put her hand over her mouth, and her face was almost white.
“Whatever is the matter, Katherine?” said Seaman, helping her to a stool. I looked back at the door and saw that Chisnall had already disappeared into the crowds.
“It’s nothing,” said Katherine, after a few moments hesitation. Although her voice was weak, the colour slowly began to return to her cheeks. “I just came over faint for a moment. I’ll be alright in a minute.”
“Perhaps I should leave,” I suggested, eyeing Katherine with curiosity. “I don’t wish to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding,” said Seaman, “but perhaps it would be better if you returned this evening. You are welcome to dine with my wife and I. We have some other guests coming, so you would be most welcome. And our housekeeper is an excellent cook,” he added, by way of reassurance.
Thanking Seaman for his hospitality, I arranged to return at 7 o’clock that evening and left my host to attend to his sister.
Chapter 8
Chester – Wednesday March 6th, 1644
The independent enclave of Gloverstone appeared strangely quiet as I approached along Castle Street. The ramshackle collection of le
ather workshops and run-down tenements seemed somewhat incongruous set against the solid backdrop of the castle, which stood sentinel over Chester’s poorest quarter. Along the ramparts, several redcoats could be seen, casting their eyes watchfully over the town, along Skinners’ Row, and across the River Dee to the burned and ruined remains of Handbridge, razed to the ground several months previously on the orders of the city’s governor.
Drops of sweat prickled uncomfortably on my neck. It was dangerous enough travelling under false identities to the very heart of royalist Chester, without venturing unaccompanied outside the city liberties into a neighbourhood of such ill repute. Developed as a centre where leather workers who were non-guild members could trade freely and without hindrance, Gloverstone had, over the years, developed a reputation for attracting the worst of Chester’s criminal and vagrant classes. I felt unseen eyes on my back as I progressed down the street towards the Spread Eagle tavern, and my hand moved involuntarily closer to the inside of my coat, where I kept the wooden club which I had brought with me specifically for circumstances such as this.
In truth, I had little choice but to brave the alleyways of Gloverstone alone, for no sooner had I returned to the Corvisers’ Row and our cartload of boots than Alexander had drawn my attention to an unkempt and breathless young street boy, who had emerged from the throng and was waving a piece of paper at me.
“Master Simkins, sir?” enquired the boy. “I have a message for you.”
I took the paper with curiosity and, after handing the youth a couple of coins, unfolded the message to reveal a few hastily scribbled words.
GLOVERSTONE
SPREAD EAGLE
NOW
COME ALONE
SIMON
A Soldier of Substance Page 5