Traitor's Field

by Robert Wilton

The platoon tramped on through the mud and turned a corner, leaving the three men in relative isolation just inside the new-conquered land. Sentries behind them at the gate; around them, among the houses and makeshift shelters that filled the castle precincts, half-seen in shadows and alley entrances, a handful of hollow-cheeked defenders, unarmed and suspicious. And suddenly Thurloe felt the strangeness of it all: these gaunt dirty faces are my enemies, and my countrymen; we have fought to defeat them, and now we must find a way to reconcile them; the battle is over, but this still feels like hostile, foreign ground.

  ‘Get separated,’ Lyle said, ‘and there’s still men who’ll cut your throat. If you’re coming’ – this to Thurloe – ‘you’d better have this.’ And he pushed a knife into Thurloe’s hand.

  Thurloe took it instinctively, looked around more anxiously at the street, and then down at the knife.

  I don’t know what to do with this. I don’t even know where I’m supposed to put it.

  The hollow faces watched him, impassive. The three men began to squelch down the main track. From someone, Lyle had learned where the commandery was, and Tarrant and Thurloe followed a pace behind him. Am I a conqueror? Thurloe wondered. I didn’t even know I was at war. Still the faces, still the hungry protruding eyes. This place had been Royalist, and then Parliamentarian, and nine months Royalist again, and now it was for Parliament once more. In every alleyway there was furtive movement. Commanders would have to risk the judgement of those who had defeated them. Soldiers could be imprisoned or transported. But the civilians who had survived in battered Pontefract would be wondering how to accommodate themselves again. Men might have to contribute to a fine; men might just drift away in the bustle and new ease of the besiegers. It was an unfastened place for now, this swamp of mud and wreckage, of lives and loyalties in transition. Thurloe glanced warily into the alleys and doorways.

  The commandery was a ramshackle improvised hive, an old tower of the castle, built in the same distinctive stone, with newer generations of building added on in different stone and wood and plaster and even sheeting. The months of destruction had further disordered it, and the exterior was a madness of irregularity, like a building put together wrongly or inside-out.

  Lyle led the way in, and up a short flight of stairs. Perhaps he knew the place of old; perhaps he was very confident; perhaps his information was good.

  At the top of the stairs, an open chamber, and the three of them kicked around it for a minute. Scattered debris of a besieged life – mugs and helmets and chairs half-smashed for wood. A greasy pewter plate in one corner, with the skeleton of a small animal picked clean on it. A fire had burned recently in the grate, but the residue was ash only.

  Lyle led them up another flight of half a dozen steps, a side passage leading off halfway up. As he passed it, Thurloe on a stubborn whim decided he’d had enough of seeing what the other two had already seen, and turned off into the passage.

  The two other pairs of feet stamped up the steps away from him, and then onto a wooden floor somewhere.

  Thurloe was in a short corridor, flagstone floor, a stone wall on one side, plaster wall on the other; three doors, two open. He peered through them, one after the other. Gloom, disorder, filth, stench. Humans as animals; there was no residue of humans as thinking, superior beings here, traitorous or otherwise.

  He pushed open the third door. A man – perhaps his own age – bright red hair and a corresponding pale face – was squatting on the floorboards in front of a fire. He had a small barrel between his legs for some reason, and a lighted taper in one hand, and a tied sheaf of papers in the other.

  The man’s eyes and mouth widened in instinctive surprise, but then out of the madness of this dislocated world he contrived a wide, warm grin.

  ‘Such a cold day,’ he said pleasantly, and set fire to the sheaf of pages and laid it squarely in the glowing grate.

  Out of the strangeness, Thurloe heard himself say, ‘What was it?’

  Still the man only smiled.

  The foot of the sheaf was fully aflame now, and the whole was starting to curl. ‘Why would you. . .?’

  Still the steady smile, and Thurloe overcame the strangeness and stepped forward with determination. ‘I want that paper!’ Perhaps half of the thin sheaf was pricked with flames.

  ‘Indeed?’ Still the strange, sprightly calm on the pale face. ‘How much do you want it?’ And the red-headed man lowered the taper to the barrel between his legs, and lit a fuse.

  For one insane moment he continued to squat there, grinning at Thurloe while death sparked beneath him. Then as the sputtering flame reached the top of the barrel Thurloe flung himself backwards into the doorway and as he lurched away he saw the other leaping in the opposite direction towards a window and then the world broke open in thunder.

  A staggered second later, Thurloe was pulling himself up off the staircase, head ringing and back aching, and the world was a dumb-show. He stumbled to the doorway, and held himself drunkenly between its posts.

  The room had ceased to exist. Half the floor was void, the rest scorched timber. The walls were black and pockmarked. The air was smoke and dust and fireflies of burning paper and splinter.

  Thurloe lurched around the edge of the room, pressing against the warm walls and feeling the floorboards sagging under him, until he reached the window and stuck his head out. First he felt the precious gust of clear air, then he saw half a dozen people staring up at him, no more than mildly concerned by this new eruption in a whole world in flames. The red-headed man was gone.

  Shay stopped Rachel as she was crossing the hall. He was a few paces up the wooden staircase, and she looked up expectantly. A shaft of the morning sun pierced the windows over the porch and, in the gloom of the hall and its dark wood, picked out white a shock of his hair, an eye, a cheek and his teeth, and they seemed wild.

  ‘Rachel, I was wondering if there was a private place I could use when I am here. To read. Letters and accounts from my own estate. You understand. Did poor old George perhaps have somewhere of his own here?’

  Rachel was distracted for a moment by the tension between her recollection of poor old George as her gentle prudent uncle and his violent death in battle.

  Above her, Shay waited, and she was aware again of his bulk. She never seemed to see his whole body clearly – it was always suggested, by shadows, much more of it unseen and looming near her.

  ‘It wouldn’t, I think, be wise for me to intrude on your father’s domain.’

  Flickers of smiles on two mouths, a shared understanding, immediately erased by propriety and – for Rachel – a faint guilt.

  ‘Of course. There’s a room very near to George’s – your – bedroom. John will show you.’

  The room found, and a key with it, Shay stood alone inside its closed door and tried to recreate George Astbury and his habits.

  Even George wouldn’t have been foolish enough to keep papers in his bedroom, with servants in and out twice in a day at least. And Shay fancied he’d not instinctively have mixed the over-human realities of his bedroom – smelly sheets and a full piss-pot – with his business affairs. He had checked the bedroom regardless.

  But this room might do better. There was less of comfort in it than he associated with the old man. Perhaps that had helped him focus – a kind of austerity. George Astbury in his monk’s cell, at his devotional intelligencing work. A small room, white plaster and dark wood. A corner room: two windows on the two outer walls, one of them over a window seat. A plain oak table; a chair with brown upholstered seat, and a solid footstool likewise leather-topped. A fireplace, swept; a plain mantelpiece above it at chest height, with one anomalous brass candlestick at one end.

  George doing his duty. George sitting himself upright in that stern chair, papers on the desk. George would have been embarrassed to be caught with anything – flashes of their occasional interactions as boys, fifty years is it now? – so if he worked here he’d have wanted his papers here.

&n
bsp; Nothing with desk or chair. The floorboards well nailed-down. The chair leather unscuffed by boots – until Shay stood on it – and the ceiling unyielding. The fireplace stone-backed, and instinctively George would fear someone somehow coming in and deciding to light a fire. He checked the chimney anyway – and found it bricked up, solid. The window seat hollow, but its front firm and its top held in place by the panelling under the window.

  Shay’s mind tried to be George Astbury, while his knuckles rattled obsessively at panels and boards.

  One of the slats of the side panelling a little loose, just over one end of the window seat. He picked at the crack, drummed his knuckles on the slat, worked at it with his hand.

  The slat slid smoothly towards him and out. There was a small void behind it, rough brick and dust.

  Enough for a few papers, but no more, and there would be no way to hold them in place. Shay went to slide the slat back.

  And wondered again about the window seat. With the panelling slat removed, the broad plank would move along a fraction, and up. In a second, Shay had lifted it away to reveal a very satisfactory space beneath, at least a foot deep and about as wide and perhaps two feet long. He peered at the dust of the boards inside the space, wondered at the faintest square outlines in it. Boxes? Papers?

  Withal, it was empty now. Where is the book? The few copies of the Directory were either still held by trusted men, or would have been burned if endangered. But the book was different: known to the fewest. Where is it?

  Shay replaced the seat and the panelling slat, and left, locking the room behind him. The hollow under the window would need to stay empty, too; he would find his own hiding place.

  ‘Did you find any skeletons?’

  She was a light invisible voice in the window’s blaze, as Shay came down into the hall with eyes slow to adjust.

  He waited until he reached the floor, refusing to be thrown by the first thrust and waiting to pick his ground.

  Now she was a shadow against the window and, as he stepped forward into the hall, a figure of dimensions and colours, and finally a face.

  ‘My thanks for the use of the room, Rachel. All I need.’

  It was a lovely face, sure enough, and it was watching him with self-amusement and precocious challenge. But a flicker of uncertainty crossed the eyes, as the conversation failed to go her way. ‘Did you. . . find what you were looking for?’ The fine chin was still up, provoking.

  He waited until he’d shifted his ground, making it obvious that he was considering her face. ‘All that I need, thank you.’ He leaned forward. ‘One shouldn’t look for too much.’

  He thought he’d made her complicit in his staying. She seemed to think she had gained a little ascendancy over him.

  Rachel Astbury was altogether too pert.

  MERCURIUS FIDELIS

  or

  The honeſt truth written for every Engliſhman that cares to read it

  From MONDAY, MARCH 19. to MONDAY, MARCH 26. 1649.

  MONDAY, MARCH 19.

  HE ſilly PARLIAMENT, which the day before had with great ceremony and pomp paſſed an ACT aboliſhing the MONARCHY, as tho’ a herd of cows might paſs a decree againſt thunder-ſtorms, or the TURKS decide the price of fiſh in BILLINGSGATE, this day proceeded to paſs an act aboliſhing the HOUSE OF LORDS. Having thus aboliſhed a part of itſelf, like a man who do ſaw his own leg oſf for cauſing him to trip, we may hope that the PARLIAMENT now ſuſtain this work and ſwallow itſelf whole.

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 21.

  Even as the PARLIAMENT HIS MAJESTY’s work by removing more traitors, ſo too did the ARMY continue its war with its own ſelf. On March 21. it expelled from its ranks OVERTON, thought the author of the recent tract againſt CROMWELL THE FOX, and ſome of his friends, for their radical diſſenſion. Like this the ARMY will peacefully aboliſh itself quite, and we ſhould be thankful for it. Doubtleſs theſe LEVELLERS are mere malcontents and ſimpletons, for the chaotic deſtructiveneſs of their NOTIONS may be ſeen by a CHILD, but they have ſeen the lies and vanities of the preſent leaders of PARLIAMENT and ARMY right enough. CROMWELL’s anger at their froward heſs is underſtandable, for they do ſhow him plain as the TYRANT he is.

  THURSDAY, MARCH 22.

  At DORKING on Thurſday was put to the ſtocks one TAPPE, for preaching out-of-doors very miſchievouſly, crying that all PRIESTS and PARLIAMENT-MEN and KINGS and GENERALS are but ants in the dung-hill, and that the DEVIL was at work in all rulers, and that he had ſeen JESUS ſtanding by the town well promiſing vengeance on all ſinners, and naming many other PORTENTS and SYMBOLs beſides that betold the coming judgement.

  SATURDAY, MARCH 24.

  Until Saturday the brave men of PONTEFRACT caſtle maintained their ſtruggle, but on this day their ſtrength left them at laſt. So ends the defiance of a great fortreſs of LOYALTY and HONOUR againſt injuſtice and tyranny. Eventually the pitiful cries of the women and the moſt extreme privations that ever men endured forced the ſtout hearts to open the gates and ſeek for HONOURABLE TERMS. Like lions and true GENTLEMEN they reſiſted the tricks and tortures and ſalvoes and ſallies of the HORDE, and many ſurvive to continue the fight. Indeed, more ſurvive than even their foes did know, for the ARMY refuſed MERCY for ſix of the defenders of the caſtle, but could not lay hands on them. Very like General LAMBER and the Army thought to further weaken the ſpirits of HIS MAJESTY’s loyal followers, their victims, by more executions and ATROCITIES, but not for the firſt time their policy miſcarried. Even as the ſiege was ending, thoſe BRAVE MEN that the Army hunted hid themſelves in a SECRET place within the walls, waiting until the ſoldiers were diſtracted with drink and licentiouſneſs, and achieving their FREEDOM. So then did the braveſt of HIS MAJESTY’s followers eſcape the ſnare, and ſo will TRUE SOULS prevail.

  [SS C/T/49/2 (EXTRACT)]

  Downstairs again, in Anthony Astbury’s study and running his fingers along the spines of the books – more to stir thoughts than out of any insane expectation that the book he sought would be among them – Shay caught a glance of a face and turned, unsettled.

  His sister. Now a portrait in an alcove. Politely reverenced; stored.

  Ah, my Isabelle. Perhaps I’m glad you did not live to see what has become of your world.

  He turned, and Rachel was standing watching him. Her presence was a jolt, and so was the bold echo of those brown eyes.

  ‘You have the look of my mother,’ she said. ‘The cheeks; around the mouth.’

  He tried to ignore it, began to move. ‘She was only half my sister.’

  ‘Even so.’

  Shay turned fully to face her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was often said. A far happier lot for me than for her.’ He forced a smile, and turned away.

  ‘Blood is the strongest bond.’ Rachel said it too loud, and he stopped. He turned to find her surprisingly close, forcing her presence at him. ‘Don’t you find it so?’

  He looked at her seriously. ‘Sincerely, no. Not enough to be depended on. These last years have taught us that.’

  ‘Sir George found it so.’

  She was speaking with a child’s petulant insistence, and a child’s fragile boldness of stance, and he felt anger coming fast. ‘Then he was a fool.’

  ‘That’s disrespectful!’ There was genuine affront in her tone. ‘He trusted me.’

  Shay let a long slow hiss out through his teeth, not looking at her, and turned again and walked away.

  ‘He burned his papers.’

  The heavy shoulders stopped still, two black boulders in the gloom. Rose with a breath; dropped.

  ‘His last visit here. Just before he went off to die in the battle at Preston. He carried the papers out and burned them. Jacob helped him. I saw, and he didn’t mind. I may be a wo—’

  Sir Mortimer Shay turned to face her again, and she recoiled at something in his eyes: a ferocity, a wildness, a capacity for – for anything.

  He took a step closer. She started to speak, and stopped.
Another step closer. Then his hand reached up in front of her breasts, and the finger and thumb clamped firmly under the fragile line of her jaw. His eyes flicked left and right, and she knew he was listening. She also knew that none of the servants would be nearby at this time. The first alarm overcome, her mouth nonetheless opened instinctively, but the heavy forefinger of his left hand rose slowly to his lips, and still his eyes bored into her.

  He began to move forward, and his finger and thumb pushed against her throat, and she retreated, one clumsy step, another, and immediately she knocked against a timber with head and shoulders and rump, and gave a little gasp.

  Still his hand was under her jaw, where the fine bone gave way to flesh: not hard, not choking, but with a soft certainty that held her trapped, her feet not quite flat on the ground.

  ‘The girl is bursting out to be a woman, isn’t she?’ he said, a hard murmur. ‘And the woman is bursting out to be free.’ He shook his head. ‘Believe me, if once you taste the world you dream of, you will wish yourself back in the cradle.’

  The brown eyes – beautiful; a doe, a falcon – were wide: alarm; anger.

  ‘Somewhere between the nursery and a dream of marriage you found that adulthood was a secretive place, and you found George Astbury more secretive than most. Now here is Shay, whom the world mistrusts, and he is more secretive than any. And you want to be let in, don’t you?’ He turned her chin a fraction. ‘Lord, you probably want to decorate.’

  He released her. But before his hand dropped away he lifted a finger and, apparently absorbed, ran it down one side of her satin jaw.

  ‘One day, very possibly, I will need to trust you. One day, perhaps, I will come to you desperate for some help or protection that you alone may give me. And you should fear that moment as it were a snake.’ He leaned closer. ‘Trust kills.’

  He left.

  Rachel Astbury stared after him, venomous.

  Shay had been on the track of his man for thirty-six hours. Fugitives from Pontefract could be traced easily enough, if one knew the right people to ask and the right kind of persuasion. This one was harder than some: a room paid for but not used; a false trail laid through a wood; the doubling back towards the fallen town. On foot now: disappearing, not fleeing. A man who cared that he might be followed, and knew how to avoid it. Nevertheless, Shay had the scent fully now, and had followed it to a stable on the edge of Wakefield.