“Tell me,” I said to the boy. “The Spread Eagle. Is that far from here?”
“No, sir,” answered the boy, slowly regaining his breath. “I have just come from there. Follow Bridge Street almost as far as the river. Then turn right at St Olave’s Church and walk towards the castle. You’ll find the tavern on the right. The gentleman who gave me that note is sat in a corner to the left of the main hearth.”
The Spread Eagle, located on the corner of Castle Street and Bunce Street, was a large, sprawling building, which exuded an air of dilapidation, plaster crumbling from filthy walls stained brown with years of tobacco smoke and spilled ale. The atmosphere inside was lively enough though, and, unlike the rest of Gloverstone, it was full to bursting with off-duty soldiers. The sickly stench of tobacco and male sweat filled my nostrils as I entered the taproom. Simon caught my eye from the corner of the room and beckoned me over.
“Take a look over your shoulder by the window,” he whispered, pushing a beaker of ale in my direction, “but don’t make it obvious.”
I nodded and, taking a long, grateful draught, turned round and nearly fell off my stool. Sat among a group of men playing dice and wearing the distinctive green coat of many in the tavern, was the instantly recognisable figure of James Skinner. I gasped with surprise, but Simon had already gripped my wrist in warning.
“Say nothing,” he hissed. “There are eyes and ears everywhere. He knows we are here. We are going to drink our beer peacefully and unobtrusively and then we are going to leave without looking in his direction. Are we clear?”
I nodded and raised my beaker in salute to my brother, before draining it in a single gulp.
Simon paid the serving wench, who winked at us in a manner which I found somewhat disconcerting, and then, trying to remain inconspicuous, we pushed our way through the crowd and back out onto the street.
“This way,” said Simon, indicating a narrow gap between two tenements on the opposite side of the street. We picked our way in between the buildings and round a corner until we stopped by the back entrance to a glover’s workshop. Scraps of discarded leather lay in an open crate by the wall. Meanwhile, a dog, scavenging among the detritus left to rot in the street, looked up at us insolently and growled.
“Now what?” I asked, casting my eyes nervously up and down the alleyway.
“Have patience, brother,” said Simon. “He will come.”
As we waited, an old man shuffled by and eyed us suspiciously from beneath the rim of his hat. Presently, though, we heard the sound of footsteps echoing on the cobbles, and James Skinner emerged from around the corner, beaming from ear to ear.
“Master Cheswis,” he exclaimed. “It is a surprise to find you in Chester. I did not realise you had business here.”
“I usually don’t,” I said, looking at Simon, who gave me a mystified shrug of the shoulders. “It is not every day that I am asked to risk my life in order to rescue my apprentice.”
“Rescue, sir?”
“Of course. Your brothers worry for your wellbeing. It is they who asked us to come here.”
“I see.” Skinner fell silent for a moment and pursed his lips. It was just for a second, but the hesitation did not escape my notice. There was something different about Skinner compared to the last time I saw him. He was still a gangly youth, but there was something more animated about his demeanour, and his skin had acquired a healthy pink glow that had been missing before. It suddenly occurred to me that Skinner did not care a jot whether he fought for the King or for Parliament. He was too young to comprehend the politics behind the war, and he was too busy enjoying the life of a soldier.
“They are treating you well, I see,” I ventured.
“Yes, sir,” said Skinner. “Food isn’t plentiful, but there is enough, and although clothing is in short supply, I have acquired a new tunic. I am a musketeer in Sir Henry Tiller’s regiment,” he explained, showing off the new coat he was wearing.
“And Jem Bressy?” I asked. “What about him?”
“Bressy has other concerns,” said Skinner. “I rarely see anything of him, but he has not treated me badly. He sees my value as a marksman.”
“I hate to interrupt,” cut in Simon, who was nervously scanning both ends of the alleyway, “but we don’t have time for this. It is too dangerous here. Listen carefully,” he urged, addressing Skinner directly. “We have come to take you back to Nantwich. This is what I need you to do. After we have finished talking, go back to your friends in the tavern and do not reveal where you have been. Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, we will meet again at this precise spot. There is a reason for bringing you here, and that is because I have purchased a cartload of gloves and tanned leather to take back to Nantwich. Tomorrow morning we will load the cart here and you will conceal yourself under the leather until we are out through the turnpike at Boughton. Understood?”
Skinner and I both nodded, but I noted with consternation that there was a certain degree of hesitancy in Skinner’s response, and I began to wonder how I would begin to explain it to his brothers if my erstwhile apprentice chose to remain in Chester and fight against Parliament. But there was little time for negative thoughts of that kind. Simon and I bid Skinner farewell until the morrow, and with as much haste as we could muster without drawing undue attention to ourselves, we headed back towards the reassuring anonymity of Bridge Street.
Chapter 9
Chester – Wednesday March 6th, 1644
That evening, I left Simon and Alexander to sample the delights of Chester’s many taverns and alehouses, under the strict proviso that they did not draw attention to themselves by becoming too drunk. Meanwhile, I prepared myself for my dinner appointment with William Seaman and his intimate circle of friends, an event which I was beginning to view with considerable apprehension, not least because it meant appearing in public under my real name, when my trader’s pass said I was a shoemaker called Simkins.
In truth, I did not know what to expect from the evening, and, to add to my misery, I realised that the attire I had brought with me was woefully inadequate for socialising in polite company. Fortunately, Thomas Corbett offered me the use of a fine cobalt-coloured doublet with gold braiding and slashed arms buttoned up to the armpits. The sleeves were a little short, and my lack of a paunch left more room in the garment than I would have liked, but, coupled with my own breeches and one of the best pairs of boots from Simkins’ stock, it served its purpose.
When I arrived at Seaman’s residence, I was mildly surprised to find that the interior of the house was substantially larger than it looked from the outside. Accessed via a wooden alleyway and a steep flight of stairs, which emerged at row level, the Seamans’ living quarters occupied the whole of the top floor of the building. It was not quite the same as the impressive merchants’ houses, which stood outside the city walls on Foregate Street, but it was nonetheless large enough to suggest that Seaman was a businessman of considerable standing within Chester. I was invited upstairs by a curly-haired footman with a pronounced limp, who led me into a dimly lit ante-room, where several people were already assembled.
“Ah, Cheswis!” exclaimed Seaman, as I entered the room. “Come and sample some of this sack. The very best produce from Jerez in Spain.” Seaman was already displaying an air of jauntiness, which suggested that he had already sampled rather more drink than was advisable at this stage of the evening. I accepted a glass, gratefully, from a servant and took a sip of the sweet-smelling liquid as I was introduced to each of the guests in turn.
Seaman’s wife, whose name was Isabel, was a surprisingly tall woman, whose height was offset by a quiet and unassuming air. She had long dark hair tied back under her coif and fine, sculptured features – no great beauty, but not unattractive in her own way. She had been in deep conversation with Katherine, who, I was perturbed to see, still looked nervous and as pale as a sheet. She allowed herself to be re-introduced to me by Seaman, but I was somewhat taken aback at a certain frostiness in her t
one. At first, I thought she might have taken umbrage to something I had said that morning, but after a few moments I was intrigued to note that her icy manner was directed not at me but at her brother, who, it appeared, was oblivious to her ire, having already turned away to talk to the equally sour-faced Edward Chisnall, who was still studying me with an air of cautious distrust.
Of the other two guests, one was a well-groomed man with a pointed beard, in his early forties, who introduced himself as Robert Whitby. Dressed somewhat ostentatiously in a bright red satin doublet with a white lace collar of the highest quality, matching red breeches, and high-heeled boots, he cut an impressive figure. He was accompanied by a much younger woman: his wife, whose name he did not condescend to give me, but who gave me the sort of reserved smile typical of those not used to being allowed a prominent role in proceedings.
“Mr Whitby is here as a representative of Francis Gamull, with whom I share a number of business interests,” explained Seaman.
I observed Whitby with a certain degree of curiosity. Francis Gamull, I knew, hailed from the most powerful merchant family in Chester, which, for the past twenty years, had controlled much of the import and export trade in the city. Gamull himself owned several of the Dee Mills down by the river, and he had served the city both as mayor and as a Member of the Long Parliament in 1640, as well as being responsible for the establishment of the town guard in 1643.
“You are well connected, sir,” I commented, trying to look impressed.
“My uncle, Edward Whitby, was the third husband of Francis Gamull’s mother,” explained Whitby. “Our families have common interests going back many years.” Whitby, I noticed, spoke with a slight lisp, and his upper lip curled upwards when he spoke, lending his features a look of aloofness.
“Francis Gamull and I have collaborated in the export of calf-skins to France and Spain for many years,” interrupted Seaman, waving his sack glass in the air. “No doubt if circumstances were different, Francis would be in attendance this evening, for we have recent business successes to celebrate.”
Whitby frowned, and I got the distinct feeling that Seaman had spoken out of turn.
“Francis is still in Oxford, attending His Majesty King Charles’ legitimate Parliament,” said Whitby, “but we can expect him back soon, for the King has expressed his wish that Francis succeeds Sir Nicholas Byron as governor of this place, following Sir Nicholas’s unfortunate capture at Ellesmere.”
“And what are the chances of that happening?” I asked.
Whitby sniffed thoughtfully and stared into the depths of his glass. “In truth, sir, about as likely as Puritan psalm singing in a bawdy house. No one would like Francis to become governor more than me, but he has too many opponents with axes to grind. That traitorous roundhead scoundrel Brereton and his lackey Edwards have a lot to answer for with their lies and politicking. Anyway, Prince Rupert will be here soon, and he will no doubt make sure that John – Lord Byron – is installed as Governor.”
“You may well be right, Mr Whitby,” I agreed. I knew the story well. William Edwards was a Puritan merchant, who for many years, had battled against the Gamulls, accusing them of negotiating monopolistic trading agreements in the interests of themselves rather than those of the city. Edwards had no doubt poisoned the minds of many of the inhabitants of Chester against the Gamulls. When war broke out in 1642, Edwards had also been one of Sir William Brereton’s chief collaborators in beating the drum for Parliament. Brereton had subsequently been ejected from Chester and had been lucky to escape in one piece – unlike his Chester residence, the old St Mary’s nunnery, which had been ransacked and destroyed. It was no wonder that Brereton had often given the impression that he wished to bring Chester to its knees.
At that moment, we were all called to the table, and it quickly became apparent that William Seaman had spared no expense that evening. Our host’s housekeeper had excelled herself. We were first treated to a magnificent carp pie baked with nutmeg, raisins, and lemon, followed by a shoulder of mutton with oysters and finally an orange pudding, cooked, I presumed, with some of the oranges I had seen in Seaman’s storeroom.
I found Robert Whitby to be excellent company, as was Seaman, sustained no doubt by the copious volumes of good Gascon wine he was consuming. Isabel Seaman also proved to be a loquacious host, showing an impressive knowledge of local politics. Even the initially taciturn Edward Chisnall eventually loosened up, waxing lyrical on the benevolence of the Stanley family and the earl’s loyalty to the Crown. The only people who remained quiet were Whitby’s wife, who seemed afraid to express an opinion on anything, and Katherine Seaman, who sat with a face like stone, merely playing with her food; not that I found this disconcerting at all. After an hour of congenial company from the majority of those present, the evening seemed almost perfect. I should have known better.
The first sign that something was wrong was when Katherine Seaman suddenly pronounced that she was feeling faint and would like to take some fresh air. Robert Whitby got out of his seat and offered to escort her downstairs into the courtyard at the rear of the house. He returned five minutes later, announcing that Katherine had asked to be left alone, but that he had made sure that she was sat safely on a wooden bench in the corner of the courtyard with some cheese and a glass of wine.
Ten minutes later, we were disturbed by the footman, who delivered a message addressed to Edward Chisnall. The letter bore a seal depicting an eagle and child, immediately recognisable as that of the Earl of Derby. Chisnall tore open the letter and blanched when he saw the contents.
“I’m afraid I must excuse myself,” he said. “It is difficult to tear myself away from the good cheer and companionship that we have enjoyed this evening, but I must leave for Lathom immediately. The Council of War in Manchester has decreed that Lathom must be subjugated and acquired for Parliament. Lord Fairfax rides as we speak.”
There was a murmur of shock from all around the table, but everyone immediately got to their feet and wished Chisnall a safe journey. As he shook my hand he gave me another searching look, which conveyed the fact that, despite the evening’s conviviality, he still did not trust me.
With only five of us left around the table and the food all gone, it seemed as though the evening was about to break up, and so it would have done were it not for what happened next.
Just as the Whitbys were preparing to leave, there was a gentle knock at the door, and the footman appeared.
“Master Seaman,” he said, apologetically. “May I trouble you for a moment, sir? A word in private, if I may.”
Seaman looked at the footman for a moment and, with a look of exasperation, threw his napkin on the table and strode out of the room. After a few moments, I heard a loud exclamation from the ante-chamber, which made me think for a moment that Seaman was arguing with his footman. However, a few seconds later the door opened again and Seaman appeared, a grave look on his face.
“Guests,” he announced. “I’m afraid you must excuse me for a few moments. I have an urgent matter to attend to. I won’t be long. Isabel, if you would be so kind as to entertain Mr and Mrs Whitby in my absence, I will return presently.” Then, addressing me, he added, “Master Cheswis, I require your advice. Would you join me, please?”
Puzzled, I got to my feet and followed Seaman to where the footman was waiting, his hands clasped together in agitation. I looked at the expression of anxiety on Seaman’s face and a feeling of disquiet began to overtake me.
“She’s downstairs in the courtyard, sir,” said the footman. “You’d better follow me.” With a halting gait, he led us through Seaman’s steam-filled kitchens, where the smell of cooked oranges and baking fought gamely with the lingering aroma of gutted fish.
Limping out through a side corridor, the footman took us out into the sharp evening air and down a flight of stairs, which opened out into an internal courtyard. In one corner stood a compact stable block and an area for storing wood. In the other was a small table on top of whi
ch sat a small plate with some bread and cheese and a glass of wine, some of which had been disturbed and spilled on the floor.
Next to this was a wooden bench, on which was sprawled the dead body of Katherine Seaman. Her face, a mask of horror, stared upwards towards the gable end of the house, her eyes red and vacant. Small globules of spittle had formed around her mouth, and her neck was swathed in a mass of blood. On the cobbles next to her foot lay a discarded cheese wire.
“By our lady…” began Seaman, rubbing the back of his neck in anguish. “Katherine!” He stepped forward, but I held him gently by the wrist.
“Don’t touch the body,” I warned. “At least not yet. We need to find a constable.”
“I thought you were one,” responded Seaman, his voice rising a notch.
“You are shocked and not thinking straight, Mr Seaman,” I said, somewhat defensively. “I’m not a Chester constable. We need to report this death to a local officer. I would not have thought I needed to explain this to you.”
Seaman halted for a moment and gave me a glassy stare before nodding apologetically. Taking a deep breath, he turned to his footman.
“Tell me, Roberts,” he said. “Who found the body?”
“John Gibbons, sir,” replied the footman. “He were out here throwing away food scraps into the ashpit, at least so he says.”
“I see. Would you be so good as to fetch him? And while you’re at it, ask Martha to come down too.”
Roberts turned on his heels and limped obediently back upstairs towards the kitchens, leaving Seaman and I alone with the cadaver.
“I would have thought that it would be in your interest to delay the intervention of a constable as long as possible,” said Seaman, matter-of-factly. “You will almost certainly be asked to remain in Chester as a witness. Is that not something that you would wish to avoid?” The merchant looked at me fixedly for a few moments, giving me time to fully comprehend the significance of what he was saying.
A Soldier of Substance Page 6