Isabel took a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “It is true,” she said. “William has disappeared and I know not where. I have not seen him since yesterday. But you speak of more bad news?”
“Indeed,” I said. “It concerns Mr Seaman’s sister Jane and her husband.” I proceeded to recount the story of my arrival at Lathom, the attempt on the life of myself and Lawrence Seaman, and the horrific murders of Jane and John Bootle.
To my amazement, Isabel did not gasp or register surprise at the news. Instead, she merely nodded sadly. “It is as I feared,” she said. “Yesterday, a messenger arrived from Ormskirk. He bore a letter from Lawrence. William would not say what was in the letter, but I guessed that the news was not good, for he went white and left the house without a word. Later, he returned saying that he had been with Robert Whitby and Francis Gamull, and had persuaded them to postpone the trial of Gibbons, the poor man accused of Katherine’s murder – that he had promised to provide them with evidence that would clear Gibbons’ name.”
This was interesting news, for if Gamull and Whitby were involved in Katherine Seaman’s murder, then surely it was in their interest for Gibbons to be found guilty. If Gamull and Whitby had agreed to Seaman’s request to help Gibbons, did that not suggest that they were innocent of any involvement in the murders? I wondered whether Seaman had told Gamull and Whitby that there had been a second and a third murder and that Gibbons must, therefore, be innocent. If he had, Gamull and Whitby had betrayed no knowledge of it earlier that day.
“And what happened next, Mrs Seaman?” I asked.
“I wish I knew. William simply went out again and never returned. I am at my wit’s end. What in God’s name has he got himself involved with? Where can he possibly be?”
“I think I have a good idea,” I said. “Please do not worry yourself. Now I have spoken to you, I believe your husband to be innocent of any serious wrongdoing. He is guilty only of foolishness. I promise I will find him, and with God’s will bring this whole sorry episode to a conclusion for the benefit of us all.”
And with that, I shook Isabel by the hand, thanked Challinor for his hospitality, and with Chisnall’s horse in tow, Alexander and I climbed wearily back into our saddles and made our way northwards, on the long ride back to Lathom.
Chapter 28
Newark – Wednesday March 20th, 1644
Simon Cheswis lay flat on his back in thick undergrowth, just below the crest of Beacon Hill, and stared at the stars. Fifty yards above him he could hear the chattering and joking of Sir John Meldrum’s parliamentarian army echoing across the top of the escarpment. They were the voices of confident soldiers, men who knew that the royalist stronghold of Newark, stretched out in the valley below them, could not hold out for much longer, that the mixture of young royalist gentlemen, beautiful young ladies, and militant churchmen who had gathered in the town would soon be at their mercy. Meldrum, it was said, had already turned down one attempt by the besieged to negotiate a surrender, but the canny Scotsman had refused, knowing that the town was full of plate, money, and good plunder to keep his troops happy.
Sir John had arrived outside Newark no more than two weeks previously with two thousand horse, five thousand foot, and an artillery of thirteen siege guns, and although he had not quite kept his promise to reduce Newark within the space of a week, he had made significant progress. He had stormed Muskham Bridge to the north-west of the town and taken control of the island, a large tract of land enclosed by two branches of the River Trent and lying immediately opposite Newark Castle. Meldrum had set up headquarters in the Spittal, the burned-out remains of a manor house to the north-east of the town, and now also occupied the high ground to the east.
What he did not realise, however, was that Prince Rupert was on the march and, by the following evening, would be encamped at Bingham, only eight miles to the south-west of Newark.
Simon longed to get to his feet, to announce his presence to the soldiers above him and warn them of Rupert’s impending arrival, but knew that he couldn’t, that he would probably be arrested and held as a royalist scout, especially wearing the green coat he had been given, which identified him as a soldier of Henry Tillier’s regiment. He would have dearly liked to ditch the coat, but the sharp March weather precluded such a plan, for it was far too cold to be riding around the countryside dressed only in a shirt and breeches. Simon, therefore, decided to bide his time and, clutching his carbine to his chest, prayed that God would prove to be merciful and keep him concealed.
The horse he had stolen, when he had absconded from the royalist camp the day before, stood out of sight and tethered to a tree half a mile down the hill to the east. From there he had waited until the hours of darkness before proceeding by foot and keeping to the shadows to avoid detection. As he lay among the bushes and the grass, awaiting his chance, Simon considered what he had been forced to endure during the past week.
Six miserable days he had spent with Prince Rupert’s army, pretending to be an Irishman. He had been marched to Shrewsbury, then down the Severn to Bridgnorth, and finally across country to Ashby de la Zouch, by which time the prince’s force had swollen to three thousand five hundred horse and three thousand foot.
James Skinner had remained elusive during the hard marches. The royalist force was large, gathering strength as it moved, and Simon had no wish to draw unwelcome attention to himself. He therefore spent several days keeping himself to himself and speaking as little as possible, lest his imperfect Irish accent be unmasked as fake. Skinner, however, had noticed Simon’s presence amongst Tillier’s men and had thrown several quizzical looks in his direction.
By the time they reached Ashby de la Zouch, Simon realised that time was running short. In two days they would be before the gates of Newark. If he wished to effect Skinner’s escape and avoid having to risk his own life fighting for the King’s party against Meldrum’s men, he had little time to lose.
That evening, after they had eaten, Simon picked his way through the sprawling encampment and sought out Skinner, in order to outline his plans to escape to parliamentary lines and thence back to Nantwich. What he heard from his brother’s erstwhile apprentice, though, was not what he had wanted or expected to hear.
“I will stay here, Simon,” said Skinner. “My place is to remain with my regiment and fight for the King. I will not betray you,” he added, “but you must make good your escape and leave me here.”
Simon was dumbfounded. “You wish to fight for Prince Rupert?” he exclaimed. “But you were kidnapped and pressed into service. Daniel, Alexander Clowes, and I have all risked our lives trying to release you.”
“But I didn’t ask you to do that,” retorted Skinner. “Master Cheswis knows that I wish to be a soldier for the sake of adventure. I have no feeling one way or the other about the rights of Parliament. London is a long way from Nantwich – it is beyond my knowledge, but I do know I could never be disloyal to the King, so I am happy to fight for him.”
“But what about your brothers, who have tried so hard to persuade us to help free you? They will be distraught.”
“There is no need for them to be so,” said Skinner. “Please tell them they are in my thoughts and they should not worry about me.”
Simon sat quietly for a few moments before exhaling loudly is exasperation. “So you are to be my enemy, then?” he said.
“You are not my enemy, Simon,” replied Skinner, “not until the day you stand before me with sword in hand. Now go, before you attract attention to yourself and while you still have the opportunity to do so.”
Simon’s mind had been in turmoil as he rode the forty miles from Ashby de la Zouch to Beacon Hill. How on Earth had he managed to allow himself to be dragged into such an enterprise? He had nearly got himself killed trying to rescue this ungrateful wretch, and all because Daniel felt he owed the Skinner family something. Now he found himself in enemy territory with a stolen horse and weaponry, having to find his way to the nearest parliamentary unit an
d persuade them he was no royalist scout, but an intelligencer under the command of Sir William Brereton. Fortunately, he still had possession of the pass he had used to enter Chester and the wax ball with the encrypted message given to him by Thomas Corbett, which might, he hoped, lend some credence to his story.
Gritting his teeth with resolve, he had ridden to within a couple of miles of Beacon Hill and waited for it to go dark. From there he had proceeded to the bottom of the slope before leaving his horse and walking up through woodland, which hugged the slopes of the escarpment. Now, he lay silently, at the mercy of Meldrum’s sentries, wondering whether he had lost his mind.
Eventually, he heard the sound he was hoping for, and he became instantly alert. The clump-clump of footsteps on the steep slope, the whistling of a popular tune and then the steady stream of liquid as the soldier relieved himself on the grass a few yards away.
Simon rolled over onto his front and pointed his carbine at the man.
“Don’t move,” hissed Simon, “identify yourself.”
The man looked over his shoulder and continued to spray the hillside with urine. “Just having a piss, my friend,” he said. “I’ll be back up there in a minute.”
“I said identify yourself, unless you want a bullet in your leg,” insisted Simon. “What’s the field word?”
“The field word? Religion. For God’s sake, man, I just need a piss, that’s all.”
The soldier finished urinating, shoved his member back inside his breeches, and stomped back up the hillside, grumbling, without even bothering to look at Simon, who waited until the soldier was out of sight before slipping silently back into the trees and creeping stealthily down towards the clearing at the foot of the hill, where his horse was tethered.
***
Simon waited until it was light before venturing into the open. After eating some bread and cheese that he had bought the previous day, he reluctantly removed his green jacket and left it at the foot of a tree. Rubbing his shoulders to stop himself shivering in the sharp morning air, he mounted his horse and trotted up the side of Beacon Hill, taking care to keep to the narrow roadway to make sure that he was in full view of the sentries on top of the ridge.
By the time he reached the crest of the hill, a substantial group of soldiers was waiting to receive him, some with primed muskets aimed at him, others looking on curiously from a distance.
“For King and Parliament,” he called out, as he rode the last few yards, raising his arm in greeting.
A slightly-built officer stepped out from the crowd and addressed him. “You know the field word?” he called.
“Religion,” replied Simon, with confidence.
The officer squinted in the early morning sunlight and gestured for a couple of his men to hold onto Simon’s horse to allow him to dismount. Clean shaven, with delicate features dominated by a prominent, pointed chin, he cut a somewhat incongruous figure. He wore his hair short in the Puritan style, just covering his ears, the top combed forward to conceal a slightly receding hairline.
“Who are you, sir?” he called.
“My name is Cheswis. I am engaged under the personal command of Sir William Brereton,” replied Simon.
“Brereton, the Cheshire man? Then what are you doing in Nottinghamshire, may I ask?”
“It is a long story, but I have news of Prince Rupert’s army, with whom I was most recently pressed into service. He marches on Newark as we speak under orders to relieve this siege. By now he can be no more than twenty miles from here. I would speak to Sir John Meldrum, in order to impart what information I have.”
A murmur of interest passed around those soldiers near enough to be within earshot, but the officer raised his hand to quieten them.
“I take it you can prove your identity?”
“I have paperwork bearing Sir William’s seal and other items that will support my story, although I would not wish to share this information with the whole of your company.”
The officer nodded. “In that case I will accompany you personally. Sir John will be found in the Spittal. It is but a short ride from here. I will have someone ready a horse for me. In the meantime, I will get one of my men to procure a coat for you. You have ridden all this way without one?”
“I left it in the trees at the foot of the hill,” admitted Simon. “It was a green coat from Tillier’s Regiment – highly recognisable. I would not have had you mistake me for one of his men.”
The officer nodded and smiled wryly. “Just one more thing,” he added, lowering his voice so that no-one else could hear. “If you have come directly from Prince Rupert’s army, how is it that you know our field word? Or is that a pointless thing to ask of an intelligencer?”
Simon grinned. “I think you have just answered that question, sir,” he replied.
***
The Spittal had once been a fine family mansion with extensive gardens, owned by the Earl of Exeter, but now its beams were blackened with soot and the roof had caved in on one side, giving the house a strange, lopsided look. The stone walls, however, remained strong and provided excellent protection for Meldrum and his senior officers. The Spittal had the added advantage of being located within sight of the city walls as well as being close to the River Trent, where Meldrum had constructed a bridge of boats over to the island, thereby allowing him to maintain close control of the siege from the most strategically advantageous position.
Meldrum, a jowly, round-faced man with large eyes and downturned lips that made him look more severe than his character actually deserved, stroked his goatee beard and looked at Simon doubtfully. He had read the false papers provided by Sir William Brereton and had broken open the wax ball to reveal the encrypted message intended for Sir Thomas Fairfax.
“Well, Mr Cheswis,” he said, “you have what appears to be genuine paperwork and a tale to tell me, which, if not true, makes you a storyteller of particular skill. You say you are from a group of three of Sir William Brereton’s men tasked with delivering secret information to Sir Thomas Fairfax at Lathom House in Lancashire, and yet you allow yourself to be captured and enlisted by Prince Rupert of the Rhine. This smacks of a carelessness that does not lie easy with everything else you say about yourself.”
“You are right, Sir John,” said Simon, honestly. “It is true we were careless. We were attempting to rescue my brother’s apprentice, who himself had been kidnapped and pressed into the King’s service after January’s battle at Nantwich.”
“I see. And where is this apprentice now?” asked Meldrum, eventually.
“He remains with Rupert’s army,” admitted Simon. “It was a great disappointment to me. He has turned his coat and prefers to fight with Rupert’s band of papists and malignants.”
“Then you have risked your life and come close to losing important correspondence for no gain?”
“So it would appear, sir. It is a cause of some embarrassment to me.”
Meldrum clicked his tongue in irritation. “And your aim now is-“
“To ride to Lathom, report to Fairfax, and rejoin my colleagues, sir. I will then take further orders from Sir Thomas.”
“As things stand, you will be fortunate indeed to achieve those aims,” said Meldrum. “Sir Thomas Fairfax has returned to Yorkshire and you, sir, need to be properly equipped before you ride any further. If what you say is true, Rupert will be here very soon. You would do best to stay with us and help us defend our position here. Newark is on its last legs, and if we can rebuff Prince Rupert, we will have given very worthy and commendable service to Parliament. How long do you suppose before they reach here?”
“They will be here tomorrow, sir, earlier if they march non-stop.”
“In that case,” said Meldrum, “they will be tired and may be easily picked off by our own forces. We will invite the prince to take the high ground at the top of Beacon Hill and persuade him to follow our own men down into the valley, where he will be within range of our artillery. There we will destroy him with our guns
. In the meantime, I will call a council of my senior officers and you, Mr Cheswis, can take up arms with one of our companies.
Simon glanced across at the officer who had brought him to Meldrum. “You are welcome to join us, Mr Cheswis,” he said. “I will have someone find you a musket. I presume you can use one?”
“Of course,” said Simon.
“That is good,” said Meldrum, who then hesitated and looked at Simon for a moment. “Tell me,” he said, “you are a distinctive type of individual, not the usual kind we get here. Why is it that you chose to fight for Parliament?”
“That is easy, Sir John,” said Simon. “For me this war is not just a conflict between a rightfully elected parliament and a stubborn and arrogant king, but an opportunity for every man in this land to have a say in how England is governed, an opportunity to create a country where every man is truly equal, where men can rise to prominence on merit, not by inherited right.”
The officer was looking at Simon with renewed interest, but it was Meldrum who spoke first.
“Hah!” he exclaimed, “I thought so. This is new-fangled politics, which is not of my liking, but I suspect you and Major Lilburne are of a like mind.”
It was then that Simon realised the officer’s identity. “Lilburne,” he said. “You are not John Lilburne, by any chance, author of The Work of the Beast and Come out of Her, My People?”
“The very same,” said Lilburne, with an approving smile. “Well met, sir. I can see that you and I will have something to talk about whilst we await the arrival of Prince Rupert and his men. Come, let us return to our post and we can discuss this in more detail.”
Chapter 29
Lathom House – Thursday March 21st – Thursday April 11th, 1644
A Soldier of Substance Page 20