All sense was useless, the world a swirl of noise and dirt, and Shay was jumping between instincts: scrabbling for his sword, peering fierce through the dust for the enemy, trying to work out where the boy was. Through the haze he saw the English rider, a few yards off and pulling his horse around and coming back to the attack, and Shay had forgotten – what had happened to his sword? – then he tripped over the boy.
He pulled himself up onto his knees, sensed the dark onrush of the cavalryman, and tried to pull the boy up with him; but the boy was slumped and hard to grasp and the cavalryman was a vast shadow exploding over them and Shay could only try to shield the boy with his torso, then a fierce cry from behind and thunder and Shay dropped flat on the boy and over them both vaulted a miraculous second horse, a soaring arc of muscles and hooves through Shay’s bewildered vision, and the attacking cavalryman slowed and hesitated and was transfixed by a rigid sword that exploded out of his back.
Silence.
No more of Cromwell’s cavalry. The dust settling, and through it the world solidifying once more.
Shay pulled himself to his knees again, and checked the boy. Their rescuer trotted back, and dropped quickly to the ground; one of their companions from the rearguard. ‘That was the bravest thing, sir,’ he said. A quiet voice, unemotional; a large fit man, perhaps thirty. ‘Coming back for the boy.’
Shay grunted. ‘Yours was just as good a deed, lad. And more successful.’ He glanced down at the boy in the dust, a young glare of shock and a vicious dirty crimson rip across the chest, then up, and shook his head.
The other man winced in frustration, and then his face evened again. Together they dragged the boy’s body out of the road, and collected the three horses. There was no hedge here: scattered trees, and then uneven moorland spreading away, as much as they could see of it in the dying evening.
The horses tied, the boy covered, the two men dropped to the ground.
Shay thrust out his hand. ‘Thank you. I’m very much obliged to you.’
The young man shook hands. ‘Austwick, sir. Allen Austwick.’ Austwick? ‘Captain.’
‘Shay.’ Shay was still scrabbling at the surprise. Austwick?
‘I know who you are, sir. Well – we weren’t sure of the name. The Ghost, that’s what the men call you.’
‘They do, do they?’ Momentarily, Shay felt his vanity warming pleasantly.
Of all the men to find in a ditch in a skirmish: Austwick indeed.
‘No one sees you come, no one sees you go. You’re with the army, then you’re not, then you’re back. Murmuring in the Duke’s ear. With the men around the King. You’re listened to. Soldiers have an instinct for these things.’ He caught himself. ‘If that doesn’t seem fanciful.’
Shay shook his head. ‘I’ve lived among soldiers these thirty years. I have great respect for their instincts.’ He looked around them in the gloom. ‘Austwick, you said? We’re better off here for the night, I fancy.’
‘Agreed, sir. Good a spot as any.’
‘Road’s not as safe as it might be.’
‘Agreed, sir.’
In the last of the light they found comfortable places for themselves among the easy undulations of the earth, and Shay glanced with approval at Austwick setting his sword close beside where he’d lie and checking his pistol while he could see. Darkness closed the world over them.
‘Austwick. If you’ve no better distraction to suggest, I’d like to ask you for the tale of Doncaster, and the Leveller Colonel.’
Silence.
‘I know you were there. I have a. . . professional interest in the matter. I’ve had the tale from Teach, and from the lad Blackburn before he died.’
Silence, as if Austwick had disappeared in the darkness.
Then: ‘You spoke to Michael Blackburn?’
‘I helped him and Morrice away. Not far enough away, unfortunately. I know how the sortie ran. I know that William Paulden planned it; he that died just after. I know that Thomas Paulden and Teach and you and Blackburn were close in it. It. . . helps if I see it from different perspectives.’
Again the darkness swallowed the last of his words, and gave nothing back. Teach had described Austwick as a commanding presence in the operation; this was a different man now. ‘William Paulden was scouting around the town, yes? His brother, Captain Thomas, went off to the north gate. You and Teach and Blackburn got into Rainsborough’s lodging by pretending to have a message.’
A grunt from the night, the quiet suggestion of a chuckle. Then, ‘A simple trick, I guess, but they’d no reason to suspect.’
Shay’s third hearing of the death of Colonel Thomas Rainsborough was in a Cumbria ditch, settling himself against a shoulder of earth and grass and listening to a disembodied voice in the night.
‘Blackburn looked after the horses, I think.’
‘Right. I went with Teach after the Colonel’s Lieutenant. He’d let us in, swallowed our story. He took us up to Rainsborough’s room.’
‘The Lieutenant was up already?’
‘I guess you know an Adjutant’s job, sir. All the papers and logistics. First awake, last to bed. He was pretty distracted from the start – barely checked our papers – mind elsewhere, yes? I was proper wound up, sir, but I suppose visitors with a message was just routine business to him.’
‘Mm. And Rainsborough?’
‘His Lieutenant woke him, and he was out of his room half-dressed. We had sword and pistol on the two of them and pushed them down into the street.’
Just two men to bring down two men. ‘You took a hell of a chance.’
‘Maybe so. But they’d never have believed we were just messengers if we’d come with a platoon. And men will do what they’re told if they’re half-awake and well-threatened.’
‘That changed in the street, though.’
‘Chaos.’ The darkness emptied again. Then: ‘What we had in the roadway not half an hour back; like that.’
Shay grunted. He felt himself getting drowsy. A warm night; the ground soft. ‘Try to see the individual actions. Who moved? Who spoke?’
‘Mr Shay. . .’
‘Tell me. Who was first in the street?’
‘Me. Well, Blackburn led the horses forward and then came back to help. I went out; Teach and Blackburn were pushing Rainsborough and his man after. I mounted. Captain William Paulden coming up. Then Rainsborough muttered something, then—’
‘What?’
‘Cursing us. Whores – no, pimps. Pimps, and snakes. And cowards. And he used a strange phrase: working – no, festering in the innards – maybe it was guts – intestines, maybe – festering in the intestines of Satan.’
‘Charming.’
‘Then Rainsborough’s Lieutenant was cursing us too, by St Nicholas and St James and everyone else, and it had all fallen apart. Rainsborough was in a fury by now, and Teach saw him reaching for a weapon or lunging and shouted a warning and then Blackburn was among them and it was a proper scramble. Rainsborough cursing again, and then somehow everyone was armed. I think maybe Blackburn had stumbled and dropped his weapons, or they were snatched. Rainsborough had a blade – he may even have grabbed it from one of the saddles. The Lieutenant had a pistol and that went off, but in the confusion he hit Rainsborough, and then Teach finished the Lieutenant with his sword and Rainsborough was still waving his blade around, even though he was already mortally wounded, and I swung at him once or twice – maybe Mr Paulden – and between the two of us that did for him.’
The scene shrank away into the darkness, and Shay could hear Austwick breathing.
‘I think it was like that. Hard to be sure.’
‘Doesn’t normally matter how a man dies, does it? Thank you for indulging my curiosity.’
‘I understand, sir. To—’ He caught himself. Shay frowned; waited. ‘To be honest, I knew there was some other business behind it.’
Careful. ‘Right. What. . . what exactly had you learned?’
Austwick was shifting his weight
, and Shay heard it in leather and grass. ‘Well, naturally, the details of the skirmish would hardly matter. And the whole attack was a bit of bravado, I guess. But. . . I’m sure I wasn’t listening when I shouldn’t, sir, but I just overheard.’ Shay was holding himself absolutely still. ‘Captain William Paulden and Mr Teach – something about getting someone out – not a kidnap but a rescue.’
A rescue?
Austwick had stopped.
‘Right. The rescue.’ Who on earth needed to be rescued? ‘Nothing else? It’s not a crime, Captain – very natural – not as if there can be any doubt of your loyalty – but I like to be sure who knows what.’
‘Of course, sir. Thank you. That was all. Someone to be rescued from Doncaster. They were looking out for this person during the raid. That was all.’
Shay waited, burning with frustration for the story he never seemed to hear: a sun that never emerged from scudding clouds; a glimpsed woman who never turned to face him. Austwick had disappeared into the silence again.
MERCURIUS FIDELIS
or
The honeſt truth written for every Engliſhman that cares to read it
From Monday, July 28. to Monday, Aagust 4. 1651.
aving ſo precipitately and cauſeleſſly invaded yet more of SCOTLAND, laying waſte to the fertile plains of FIFE, the marauders of PARLIAMENT have paid the price due for reckleſſneſs and SIN. Even as the ſavage band moved north, ſo HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES ſhrewdly has led his Army of LOYALISTS ſouth, and the rebels have been left holding the bag. CROMWELL continues his depredations, having now captured the fair town of PERTH, of which we wait to hear whether it has ſuffered the ſame HORRORS as ſo many bore in poor IRELAND. Only this may we hope, that having been ſo ſhamefully miſled, he will not ſpend more time in exerciſing his humiliation on more innocents.
Meantime HIS MAJESTY continues his ſerene progreſs into the BOSOM of his own country, and the TRAITORS do lay down their weapons. Every VILLAGE and TOWN he enters does welcome him with prayers of thanks and REJOICING, for HIS MAJESTY’S manner and bearing are so comely and his people know that they are delivered at laſt.
So does the LORD GOD reveal his mercy and boundleſs kindneſs to thoſe who truſt in HIM.
Recollect, among the deſerved HYMNS of joy, the TERRORS that have been inflicted by the illegitimate and ſavage CLIQUE that have ſet looſe their dogs, and that have been ſuffered by ſo many diverſe PEOPLE in this ſore-tried land. In your prayers remember poor COLCHESTER and PONTEFRACT, and the many primitive villages of SCOTLAND and IRELAND that grieve yet. So too remember the MARTYRS ſo foully and lawleſſly MURDERED in thoſe places, and remember every VILLAGE in ENGLAND your ſons who are loſt. Even as we pray, we doubt not that GOD will hear us, for GOD hears all, and every ſuffering that is borne with faith in HIM ſhall he return with ten-fold mercy. PRAISE BE TO GOD.
[SS C/T/51/83 (EXTRACT)]
Mercurius Fidelis: the text received on a translucent paper folded together and then glued and placed between two glued pages of a mouldy chapbook, or by any of a dozen other ruses; prepared at night, by inky fingers that sometimes shook and fumbled with the type, under eyes that would not rest; printed in the first hours of light, alongside a pile of notices advertising the sale of stock of a bankrupt mercer; carried in satchels and furniture and hat-linings, under cloaks and saddles and heaps of straw, from Oxford across all the counties of England.
It was read in great manors and unhappy cottages, in rural markets and city counting houses, in parlours where old loyalties were whispered and halls where the new regime was being trumpeted. For some it was amusement; for some it was hope; for some it was a balm soothing the ache of a loss; for some it was the ache, the reminder of what they had used to be, or had failed to be.
It was read with excitement, for wasn’t it natural that in the end dawn would follow night? It was read with trepidation, for the Committee men and the magistrates and the Clerks of Fines would be harder than ever on Royalists now, and new debts and hostaged sons would be held against those who might be tempted to remember their old loyalty too hastily. It was read by Sir Greville Marsh, with the boy’s thrill at sport in his chest and then, thumping in his gut, the echoes of all the failures that life had made his, and it was read by dozens of other men like him, in dinner-table conversations, racecourse huddles, candlelit cellars, furtive market-stall exchanges and isolated oak-tree rendezvous.
It was read by John Thurloe, carefully, and he knew that the crisis – his crisis – had come.
‘Teach, you didn’t tell me what was really happening at Doncaster.’ A campfire at evening; the scene had used to relax Shay, but they were getting close to Preston, and he was becoming oddly fretful.
Teach’s face, blank, turned to him. A flicker as he considered, then blank again. ‘No,’ he said, and turned forward. ‘I didn’t.’
‘A rescue. A source.’ Again the blank face studying him. ‘Some affair of Astbury’s?’
‘You know the game.’
‘Yes.’ I do. I would have done the same. Teach of all men would only tell the minimum of his dealings with George Astbury – Astbury’s instructions, his obsessions.
But at last, feeling in Teach’s face. ‘Look, Shay: Astbury was. . . he was wild. Everything was a plot. Everything was a brilliant scheme to turn the war. You know it. You’ve said as much.’
Shay nodded.
‘Doncaster was a. . . a fool’s errand. Astbury was mad about some business with the Parliament forces there: a contact, a scheme, I – I don’t know. William Paulden knew more. His brother might have got something from him, too. There were messages coming from someone in Doncaster; someone who’d found a way to send in – not via Beaumont, but using that channel.’ He shook his head in the gloom. ‘Then a man was supposed to meet us in Doncaster – perhaps this man – meet at the bridge, I think. He never appeared. That was it. Whole thing was a nonsense.’
TO MR J. H., AT MACRAE’S IN GALASHIELS
Sir,
I know not if this will come to you, not knowing if you are with the Royal Army now that it is on the march south, and not knowing if you have arrangements still to receive such trivial correspondence as I must offer in this time of trial. I hope you survive yet and prosper.
I am sometimes with the caterpillar Army as it hurries south on its innumerable feet towards your King. Spirits seem well enough around me: I had thought that a decade of blood must have exhausted all, but I think that all do now perceive an imminent ending to their labours, and this gives the Army great heart. Scotland is safe-held behind us now, and as the Army marches south the men feel closer to their homes and this does truly raise their spirits. I have been lately in London, and it is strong for Cromwell, and in my latest journey northward I found generous garrisons at Derby and Sheffield, and a dozen places beside, up the full length of the country.
I am not a man of high politics and strategy, and yet I infer that we are near some final crisis of this protracted war, and I venture to hope that in one means or another this land may soon have absorbed the last of the blood that has so unnecessarily drenched it. Perhaps we may yet meet as companions, in some England of peace and not of this voracious conflict.
[SS C/S/51/80]
Shay read it dully, absorbing its messages, indifferent. This, perhaps, is age, that I care now more for some trivial incident of the past than the strategy of tomorrow.
Was Astbury’s obsession just an amateur’s over-concentration on a single source, some insignificant malcontent in the Doncaster garrison?
The raid on Doncaster; the rescue of a source. But how to make contact? The source in Doncaster was a stranger to the Pontefract men. Surely they’ d have arranged some word of recognition. Some other memory. Blackburn: according to Blackburn, William Paulden had said to listen for the signal. But what was the signal, and who knew it? Teach didn’t seem to know; Thomas Paulden was abroad; William Paulden was dead. William Paulden, who’d stayed out of the inn to patrol t
he streets.
And how did any of that connect with the courier, weeks earlier, hurrying through the night to Astbury?
He shook his head. And who now is the obsessed?
Garrisons at Derby and Sheffield, the key points on the eastern route. That was the meat of it.
Cromwell dropped from his horse like a leather-strapped, well-armed sack of potatoes, and sank to his ankles in the mud. Immediately he was tramping away through it, water and dirt splashing around him, and Thomas Scot was hurrying along beside him oblivious to the ruin of his cloak.
‘They’re turning, Master Cromwell!’ Cromwell stopped, and the weary head snapped round. ‘I have it from the royal Court. They’re going southwest. Avoiding the direct route to the east.’
Cromwell’s heavy features opened with life. ‘Are they now? Making for the Welsh border, and Gloucester.’ Scot nodded. Cromwell began to stride forward again through the mire. He shouldered his way into a tent and grabbed at a map and began tracing the veins of England on it with heavy fingers. ‘Excellent.’ He was talking to himself; Scot and Thurloe followed the meditation obediently. ‘Wales; Gloucester; the Severn Valley. It’s excellent.’
‘The old heartland of Royalism. They’re heading for their supporters.’
Cromwell snorted. ‘Mere sentiment. Not strategy. They’ve let us shepherd them. They’ve abandoned the thought of London, and they’re scrabbling for friends.’ His heavy fist began to thump at the west of England, and Thurloe saw Cromwell the warrior beginning to glow and flare. ‘We have them, gentlemen.’
MERCURIUS FIDELIS
or
The honeſt truth written for every Engliſhman that cares to read it
From Mpnday, Auguſt 11. to Monday, Auguſt 18. 1651.
aving croſſed the border into his native KINGDOM after a long and lamented abſence, HIS MAJESTY has continued his march with the celerity fitting to his optimiſm, well aware of the forces hurrying cloſe behind in the chaſe. Oliver CROMWELL, having tired of his works in Scotland, is now haſtening ſouthward in purſuit of HIS MAJESTY, and all ENGLAND ſhall ſhortly ſee who ſhall win the race for London.
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