A Soldier of Substance

by D. W. Bradbridge

  “You don’t need to be a whore, Roisin,” he said, one evening.

  “Who do you think you are?” she replied, venomously. “It’s my life. You have no right to sit in my house and tell me what I can and can’t do.” For some reason, he didn’t tell her about Rose Bailey.

  Simon’s ankle, it transpired, was not broken; he had merely twisted it, and so within a few days, once the swelling had subsided, he was able to get about the house unaided.

  Simon was half-expecting Jem Bressy to pay Roisin another visit, but by the time the weekend had passed, it was becoming clear that he was not returning, having assumed that Simon had escaped across the Dee. To his relief, Roisin, despite asking in all the right places, had been unable to report any arrests on the previous Thursday, and so he was fairly certain that Daniel and Alexander had also managed to evade capture.

  By the following Monday, Simon was able to walk without limping and was becoming impatient to be on his way. Having endured five days of Roisin’s company, the novelty was beginning to wear a little thin. Her mood had become increasingly grumpy, and when he had asked her why she was helping to conceal him from the royalists, he had received little more than a sulky shrug in response. Therefore, when he heard on the Monday morning that Prince Rupert was due to ride into town, he took the opportunity to escape the claustrophobic confines of Roisin’s cottage in order to see the legendary Prince Robber for himself.

  Before he left the house, he shaved and cut his hair short in the Puritan style, as a precaution against being recognised. He then walked up towards the cross, where he found the streets crammed with curious onlookers and lined with respectful soldiers. In front of the Pentice, a number of civil dignitaries stood patiently awaiting the prince, all dressed formally in the robes of their various offices: the justices of the peace in red, the town aldermen in mulberry. At one point, a coach drew up in front of the building and the portly figure of Randle Holmes, the mayor, stepped out and hobbled up to the entrance.

  Rupert had taken a week to march from Shrewsbury. After winning a small skirmish at Market Drayton, defeating forces under the command of Sir William Fairfax and Colonel Mytton, he had marched on Chester, bringing three hundred horse and six hundred foot with him. Dressed in black armour with black and gold shoulder plates, a white necktie, and sporting a crimson scarf fastened at the shoulder with a gold clasp, he cut an impressive figure. Next to him rode Lord Byron, and perched in front of the prince, on the back of his horse, was the unusual sight of Rupert’s white poodle, Boye.

  “They say the dog is bewitched,” whispered the man stood next to Simon in the crowd. Simon turned to his left and recognised one of the shoemakers he had visited the previous week.

  “Aye, that would not surprise me,” whispered Simon.

  When Rupert arrived at the Pentice, he dismounted and was addressed by the mayor, who gave a welcoming speech.

  “Your highness is welcome among us to enjoy what poor entertainment we are able to give,” announced Holmes. “This is not what your highness deserves,” he added, “but it is all we are able to muster given the reduced state of our city. With this in mind, we would beseech your highness to ease the burden placed on our citizens due to the free billeting of soldiers in our houses, which has become very burdensome to us-“

  “He speaks well,” said the shoemaker. “The city cannot afford to support so many men without adequate recompense.”

  Simon nodded in agreement. “There is no doubt about that,” he said, “but do you really think that will happen? Is it not more likely that the prince will strip the city of men and victuals and then march away somewhere else without a second thought?”

  If Simon regretted his words, he had little time to think about it, for no sooner had he spoken than several pairs of arms fastened themselves around himself and the shoemaker, and both were hauled unceremoniously through the crowds and out of sight down a side street.

  “Those are the words of a traitor,” spat a voice from behind him as he was thrust up against a wall. Simon glanced over his shoulder and realised that he and the shoemaker had been accosted by a captain and three well-built redcoats, who were now eyeing him with suspicion. He was about to defend himself, when his attention was distracted by the sight of a red-haired female figure, which suddenly appeared, as if out of nowhere, and launched herself at the captain, catching him on the side of the face with a glancing blow, which left an angry scratch on his cheek.

  “You leave my brother Conor alone,” screamed Roisin, her arms wheeling like a windmill. “He’s done nothing to you.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” hissed the captain, putting one hand to his cheek and defending his face with the other. “Someone grab a hold of this mad fucking strumpet, would you?”

  The two men holding the shoemaker promptly let go of their captive and grabbed Roisin by the arms, pinning her against the wall. The shoemaker, meanwhile, took advantage of the confusion and disappeared promptly round the corner and into the crowds.

  “So the whore is your sister?” asked the captain, once Roisin had been subdued. Simon thought about this for a moment, but only for a second, for to deny it would only have resulted in more questions.

  “Aye, sir,” he replied, in his best Irish accent.

  The captain looked at Simon with a contemptuous smile. “What do they call you, Irishman?” he demanded.

  “Conor Byrne, sir,” he replied. There was no going back now.

  “Well, Conor Byrne,” said the captain, “you are coming with us and you can find out at first-hand what it’s like to serve your king and your prince with respect.”

  “No, you bastards,” screamed Roisin, struggling and aiming a kick at the shins of one of the redcoats. “You can’t take him.”

  “I think you’ll find we can,” replied the captain. “Now get you home before we find a secure gaol cell for you instead.”

  “Go home, Roisin,” urged Simon, as he was marched down the alleyway. “It will be alright.” Straining his neck, the last view he had of Roisin was of her sprawling in the dust and howling disconsolately where the redcoats had thrown her. Simon did the hardest thing he had done since his arrival in Chester. He turned his back on Roisin and marched into the service of Prince Rupert of the Rhine.

  Chapter 21

  Lathom House – Tuesday March 12th, 1644

  “I find it difficult to believe you are here quite by accident, Mr Cheswis,” said the corpulent, balding cleric, who had introduced himself as the Reverend Samuel Rutter. With a thin smile, he moved closer to the chair to which I had been tied and put his face close enough to mine so that I could smell his breath. “Perhaps you would care to elucidate.”

  I was sat in a strong room half way up the Eagle Tower. There were two other people in the room besides Rutter and myself: a distinguished-looking gentleman with grey hair called Farrington had positioned himself by the door, whilst behind Rutter, by the far wall, stood the familiar figure of Edward Chisnall, wearing a thinly disguised expression of contempt.

  It was Chisnall who had picked me out from among my fellow prisoners as we were being led across one of Lathom House’s many courtyards by my captor, a young captain named Ogle, who had treated us with civility, stopping his men from shooting us on the grounds that he had received similar courteous treatment at Kineton Fight, where he, himself, had been taken prisoner. He was, he explained, anxious to return the favour.

  Chisnall, on the other hand, promptly separated me from the others and had me marched directly to the cell in which I now sat.

  “As Mr Chisnall is perfectly well aware, I am a long-time acquaintance of a Chester merchant named William Seaman,” I said, exaggerating the extent of my relationship with Seaman somewhat. “I am here as a personal favour to represent him in a family matter. I suspect your captain is also aware of the matter of which I speak.”

  Chisnall snorted with incredulity. “Do not dissemble with us, sirrah,” he said, coldly. “I advise you to speak the truth. How can
it be that a Nantwich man with limited credentials can be seen dining in Chester with prominent royalists one day, only to be found encamped outside Lathom House, miles from his home town, only a few days later?”

  “I am here to report the death of Katherine Seaman, as you well know,” I retorted. “I should perhaps be asking you what you did after leaving Mr Seaman’s house last Wednesday. As for why you find me in the trenches, I was pressed into service by Colonel Rigby and his officers, as were many other people hereabouts; people, I might add, who you appear to have no compunction about killing indiscriminately.”

  The effect of my words on Chisnall was wholly unexpected. The expression on his face had been instantly transformed into one of confusion. “Miss Seaman is dead?” he enquired, disbelievingly, running his hand nervously through his hair.

  I had no knowledge as to the extent of Chisnall’s acting skills, but his reaction, I had to admit, seemed perfectly genuine.

  “She was found murdered in Mr Seaman’s courtyard shortly after you left, strangled with a cheese wire. You mean you were not aware of this? I had assumed that you might have something to do with it. Miss Seaman seemed both surprised and shocked to see you in Chester.”

  “Why in the name of God would you think that? I had no idea that such a crime had been committed. But that does not explain why you would travel-”

  At this juncture, Chisnall was interrupted by Farrington, who had been looking at me curiously. “Edward, I think you are being distracted from the matter in hand,” he said. “There is no evidence that this man is anything other than he says he is.”

  I noticed that Rutter did not seem entirely convinced, but I breathed a little easier nonetheless. Chisnall merely gave Farrington an angry glare, which the latter judiciously ignored.

  “Mr Cheswis,” said Farrington, “you say you had been pressed into service by Colonel Rigby, but it was Sir Thomas Fairfax who was sent to starve us out of here. I had thought he was in command.”

  “He was,” I confirmed, “but he left several days ago. Command of the siege is now in the hands of Colonel Egerton, in conjunction with Colonels Rigby, Assheton, and Moore.”

  My three captors exchanged glances with one another, and I realised that this was news to them and therefore significant in that it meant that Lady Derby’s spy had not been able to update Rutter on events for at least the last six days. It also showed that, prior to that, the same informant had managed to communicate to Lady Derby that Parliament planned a lengthy siege rather than an all-out assault.

  What, I wondered, could have kept this person from communicating with the house for a whole week? The increased activity in building the siege works, perhaps? Or something else?

  Farrington, Rutter, and Chisnall spent another hour interrogating me, asking me questions about the layout of the siege works, the relations between the commanding officers and other such things. Fortunately, the fact that I had only been at the camp for a few days allowed me to plead ignorance on most counts.

  Once they had finished with me, I was led out of the Eagle Tower, back across the courtyard, and into a room in the main building, where Alexander and the four other prisoners were being held under armed guard. Over the course of the day, all five were led away to be questioned individually. The one soldier among us, a sergeant called Greenwood, was gone nearly two hours. At one point I thought I heard a familiar male voice, which I could not place, coming from outside the room, but I thought nothing more of it and focussed instead on thoughts of Elizabeth, young Ralph, Mrs Padgett, and Amy, and wondered if I would ever find my way back to them. I wondered about Simon and whether he had been able to escape from the clutches of Jem Bressy and his thugs. I wondered about James Skinner and whether he had managed to persuade Bressy that he had not intended to flee back to Nantwich. I wondered about Thomas Corbett, arrested trying to protect me from being apprehended as a spy, and I wondered about the servant, Gibson, arrested, I was sure, for a crime he did not commit.

  I suddenly realised how tired I was from a day and a night in the trenches. Amidst such thoughts, and in the certain knowledge that I would not be leaving Lathom House that day, I gave up pondering about what might yet prove to be pointless, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 22

  Lathom House – Tuesday March 12th – Friday March 15th, 1644

  We were freed on the Wednesday afternoon, much sooner than anticipated. The three local labourers were allowed to leave first and were told in no uncertain terms to return to their farms and their families. My suspicion that Reverend Rutter was still not sure what to make of us was confirmed by the fact that Alexander, Sergeant Greenwood, and I were made the subject of a prisoner exchange, the three of us being led out under a flag of truce and exchanged for three members of the garrison taken prisoner a few weeks previously, when Rigby’s men had captured earthworks at a place called The Stand, a strategic high point a few hundred yards to the south of the house.

  I was not convinced of Rigby’s wisdom in agreeing to include Alexander and myself in a trade of prisoners, for it amounted to a tacit admission that we were in Rigby’s employ. My fears were confirmed, for there was something about the look on Rutter’s face as we were led out of the front gate that told me I would be unwise to risk capture a second time.

  Upon our release, we were immediately summoned to New Park House, where we found not only Colonel Rigby waiting for us, but Assheton, Egerton, and Moore as well.

  “I told you that this siege is exactly what Lady Derby wants,” said Assheton, on hearing that the inhabitants of the house did not appear to be suffering unduly from a shortage of victuals. “Your man Ashurst has been duped. There is little doubt of that.”

  “Nonsense,” said Rigby, dismissively, “but even if this were true, the cost of a direct assault on the house would be prohibitive. Hundreds would be killed. Would you want that on your conscience? No, Colonel, we may not be able to starve them out, but we will besiege them and pound them into surrender.”

  “Pound them with what? We do not have enough ordnance, and even if we did, we do not have the funds to purchase the powder and ammunition that we need. How do you propose we solve that?”

  “I believe we have discussed this before. It is common knowledge, and I see no reason why Mr Cheswis and Mr Clowes should not hear it also,” said Rigby, his voice rising a notch.

  “You mean the great tax that is to be levied on the people of Lancashire to pay for this leaguer?” cut in Moore. “There are those of us, Colonel Rigby, who believe that this is illegal both in matter and manner.”

  “Illegal?” scoffed Rigby. “The tax has been passed by the committee, as you well know, and it will pay for the mortar shells that will reduce Lathom House to rubble. Be thankful for that, Colonel Moore.”

  “That is not strictly true. The money is supposed to pay for extra soldiers, and we already have ten times as many of those as they do. Why do we need more? Secondly, the tax is being raised on the whole of Lancashire with the exception of Lonsdale. I would argue that this, in itself, is illegal. A leaguer in West Derby Hundred should be paid for by West Derby alone.”

  “And one thing further,” added Assheton. “The amount you propose to raise with this tax is almost exactly the same amount raised by Lord Derby himself under similar circumstances during the Bishops War, and you tried to have him impeached for that. What, pray, makes this tax more legal?”

  The muscles in Rigby’s neck twitched involuntarily with anger, and I could see him struggling to keep his emotions in check. The colonel was clearly furious, not only, I suspected, because he had disagreed with his colleagues, but because they had dared to venture their opinions in front of Alexander and myself.

  It was Egerton, who seemed an altogether calmer type than his three colleagues, who stepped in to stop the argument. “Gentlemen, this is neither seemly nor constructive,” he said. “I am in charge here, and my judgement is that we should continue to persecute this siege along the lines
proposed by Colonel Rigby. The ordnance will be in place soon. Let us see what mood Lady Derby is in once she has felt the full weight of what our cannons can throw at her.”

  Assheton and Moore raised their hands in submission, but Assheton was unable to resist a final comment. “Of course you would wish to follow Colonel Rigby’s proposals,” he said. “You are the commanding officer of West Derby Hundred. It is in your interest that the rest of Lancashire pays for this folly. You will receive much opposition to this, I warn you,” he added.

  I own that I was in no small degree astounded at this open display of squabbling between the four senior officers, not just because they were not of the same mind, but because of the level of scorn I detected in Assheton’s voice and the anger in Rigby’s that bordered on malice. Things did not bode well for the rest of the siege, I realised, if these men could not work together.

  With Egerton having asserted his authority, the talk turned to more practical matters, particularly the nature of the chain of command within the house and anything that might lead me towards identifying the informer within Rigby’s ranks.

  I had not forgotten the strangely familiar voice I had heard from behind the door of the room where I had been kept, but I did not mention it to Egerton. I might well have been mistaken after all, I reasoned. I was, however, able to pass on some information about the nature of command within the house, most of which, I guessed, Rigby would already be aware of as a result of the negotiations he had carried out.

  Farrington and Rutter, it appeared, were Lady Derby’s chief strategic advisors, although military command was in the hands of the ‘Major of the House’, a Scotsman named Farmer, who it turned out owned the voice I had heard barking commands to his men during the attack on our trenches. There were five other captains in the house, one of which was Chisnall, and each of these captains had a junior officer underneath him. The captains tended to alternate roles relating to the defence of the house, with the exception of one Rawsthorne, who was in charge of manning the towers and battlements and hence was in command of a number of fowlers and gamekeepers from among the house’s domestic staff, as well as his own musketeers.