Pistoleer: Brentford

by Smith, Skye

  Instead of the map being organized so that the place names were easy to read, it was organized according to what the Dutch called 'schaal' for which the closest English word was scale, and that word confused many of the officers who kept thinking of market scales. It was simple really, for the comparative distances between the places on the map were an indication of the comparative distances between the places in real life, as was the direction. It took a bit of getting used to and the officers were having a hard time with it. Their own maps of the Great West Road showed the road as a straight vertical line with the place names listed in a neat column in order from West to East.

  Daniel called out over their shoulders, "You have to pretend that you are a bird flying very high and looking down at the land. You see there where there is a full bend in the blue line. That is the bend in the Thames as it goes passed Kingston."

  "Exactly, well put," Warwick told him. He tapped a long wooden pointer to the map to show them where Windsor was, and then Brentford, Kingston, Staines, and Reading. "I am told that the closest friendly garrison and supplies to the king at his palace in Oatlands," he tapped his pointer, "is at Reading, and after that Oxford. With us holding the high land at Windsor we threaten his supply lines. Charlie was obviously hoping to re-supply himself from the Kingston arsenal, but of course, Daniel here had already taken most of that away by barge."

  "So what is your plan, Robert?" John Hampden asked. He had sent his Berkshire regiment back to their garrison at Uxbridge for a rest, while he himself had ridden along with Warwick, Britta, and Daniel in the luxurious sprung coach. There were snickers from the other officers at Hampden asking about a plan which he himself would have been the mastermind.

  "I plan to continue the training of my new militiamen, and to enjoy the view from Windsor Castle until one or the other of the two greatest ditherers in this land make a move." Again the snickers. He meant Charles Stuart, the king, and Robert Devereaux, the Earl of Wessex.

  Warwick began tapping his costly map again. "Eventually Wessex will realize that it is his army that should be here in Windsor, and my militia at Fullham and Putney where he is building a bridge out of barges. Eventually Charlie will realize that he cannot stay long in Kingston because with a bridge at Putney, he could be trapped between us and Essex on either side of the river. He will have to move his army to somewhere where they have supplies. That means Reading, Oxford, or one of the south coast ports where he can be re-supplied by his queen from The Hague. The most likely port will be Chichester, there." He tapped his pointer, "because Colonel Waller and I have already taken Portsmouth away from him."

  A loud hiss came from the small door behind the Earl and he turned, saw who was hissing, and then said to his officers, "Gentlemen, please familiarize yourself with my new map. Pretend you are birds, while I deal with a household problem." He turned and walked away from them and through the small door.

  Hampden took up the pointer. "Maps such are these are a good example of why we need men like Robert Rich leading us rather than Robert Devereaux. Essex is the past, and is locked into the tactics and weapons of the past. Warwick is the future, and he has worked most of his lifetime to create a great future for England by building an overseas empire for her."

  It had been Britta hissing to Robert. She pulled him through the small door and kicked it shut behind him. "The staff are laughing at me and ignoring me," she told him, "and I don't blame them, me arriving dressed like this and looking all the world like a camp follower."

  "Take me to them," he sighed. He should have expected this from a household set up to serve royals by a French Catholic queen. They walked arm in arm through the hallways of the palace until they reached a hall where the staff had been assembled. There were few men, for the household men were with the king. Mostly they were women who had been left behind when Queen Henrietta had fled first to Dover Castle and then across the sea to The Hague. Most of them curtseyed to him, or if not to him, then to all the gold tassels on his uniform.

  "I am Admiral Robert Rich," he began immediately, "the Earl of Warwick, and temporary commander of this fortress, this palace, and of the grand army outside the walls. My wife the countess could not be here with me but she has sent her country niece Mistress Britta with me to see to my comfort." Good he had them nodding. They had noticed that he had said his wife's niece and not his niece. To them that would be interpreted as meaning that she probably was a relative and not just his latest mistress. "Please excuse her dishevelment. She was caught on the battlefield by five of Prince Rupert's lifeguard, and they attempted to abduct her for him. Some of my men took great exception to this and unfortunately none of the lifeguard survived their fury."

  Now he had their undivided attention. They must have served the prince and his lifeguard at sometime in the past. "I want her bathed and her cuts and scratches treated, and then dressed as befits a countess. From this moment on, your only contact with me will be through her and all of my requests of you will be through her. Do you understand?" None of them looked happy with this news and some looked down right rebellious.

  "If any of you are not happy with this, then you are welcome to leave Windsor now, within the hour, and go to your families wherever they may be. Oh, and you should know that I have been warned that the king has spies in this fortress. If Mistress Britta accuses one of you of spying, there will be no trial, no defense, and that person will be executed within the hour." He turned and walked away and left them to Britta. There was a stony silence behind him, for he had just given the woman in the torn and filthy skirt, the power of life or death over them all.

  Britta watched him walk away and suddenly felt very unsure of herself. The slang for nobles was nobs, and the slang for servants-of-nobles was snobs. These folk were not just servants of nobles, but servants of royals. "I um, I don't, um, It is not my intention to take over the running of this household. Please keep running it as you have been doing. My interest is the comfort of my lord and his officers. For instance, the countess does not want him eating salty food, so please do not add salt to anything he may eat. Little things like that, and of course, anything that requires his purse."

  "Ma'am," a young and quite pretty lass, one of the seamstresses, interrupted with a curtsey. "I am Ella ma'am. May I speak." When she was waved permission she said. "His grace mentioned that some of Prince Rupert's lifeguard were, ugh, killed. Was Sir Manfred of Saaz amongst them?"

  The question caused Britta to look away so she could think before she spoke. Was this lass Ella one of Manfred's lovers, one of his conquests? The wrong answer may undermine her new found authority. It would be best, of course, to say that she didn't know, but that would be dishonorable, not just to her, and to this lass, but to the dead. "Yes he was," she blurted out.

  Instead of sobs a wicked smile crossed the lass's face. So Manfred was no great loss after all. "I will tell you the full story," Britta told the young women, "and a good story it is, as you bathe and dress me. Meanwhile the rest of you may go about your duties. His grace will not stop his work until the sun is down, so please serve dinner for he and his eight officers at about an hour after dark. I will be the only woman seated."

  * * * * *

  Britta moved about amongst the men gathering in the parlour prior to entering the smallest of the dining rooms in the palace. To each she said the same thing. "Please do not say anything of interest to the king in front of my staff. They are all royalists, and many of them wear Papist crucifixes around their necks. When you must speak of such things, please be discrete or first ask me to clear the room of the palace staff."

  She was divine in a form fitting silk brocade bodice atop a light green chiffon skirt of many layers. The last person to have worn it had been Queen Henrietta, but that was prior to her giving birth for the first time so perhaps fifteen years ago. It was shameful to have stored such a wonderful gown away from the eyes of admirers for so long. It still smelled of the cedar box it had been stored in, but she did not mind the smell of
cedar. It was sweet and spicy and brought memories of forest walks into her mind.

  It had been a hard day, not just because Robert had had to intervene on her behalf, but because one of the first decisions she had made after being bathed and dressed in clean clothing more suitable to her new office, had been to dismiss all of the kitchen staff and send them away from Windsor. It had taken her hours to replace them with men from Robert's militia. In truth most of this time was spent finding the first man who had skill and experience as a cook, one Corporal Samuel Hewlitt. He had once been the cook at the Charing Gentleman's Club, and it was he who had recruited the rest of the replacement kitchen staff from his company.

  She had dismissed the kitchen staff because on a tour of the kitchen she found a sticky stain on a bowl in the food preparation area. The stain looked strangely familiar but she couldn't place it until she touched a finger to it and then to her tongue. The bitter taste that immediately caused her throat to constrict brought to her mind what it was. Monk's Hood Oil ... an herb extraction that in her village they would thin with other oils and then use as a liniment, but never on animals for if they licked it off they may sicken of even die.

  She had no way of knowing whether the oil had poisoned any food, so she ordered everything to be destroyed, rather than just thrown out, for that would risk some poor folk or animals being sickened by it. She had no way of knowing whether the poisoning had been done on purpose, or who would have had such an intent, and she could not risk the lives of Robert or his officers, so she had given the entire kitchen staff one hour to pack their things and leave the palace.

  When they had complained about such treatment she first explained about finding the poisonous oil and then about the dilemma that this left her with. When four of them threatened to take the issue over her head and directly to the Earl, she had welcomed the idea. "Please do. I was willing to treat it as carelessness worthy of dismissal, however if you feel I am being too harsh, then please take it to the Earl. Be warned, however, that if Earl decides that it was purposeful then he will send you to your maker, forthwith."

  The fetchers and carriers in the kitchen were mostly from local villages, either from the one just outside the fortress gate, or the old one beneath the fortress down on the river flats. For them, her dismissal was an upset but not a worry. Those in charge of the kitchen, however, were from places wide and far and they feared the cost and danger of such journeys in such perilous times with armies ranging all about. For these folk she arranged a solution.

  The royal stable housed two highly polished and ornate carriages. She ordered the drivers to harness one of them up, and then ordered them to take the kitchen folk to the palace at Oatlands where they could be reunited with their king. When the stable guards ran to snitch to the Earl about what she was planning to do, Robert sent a simple message back. "Make the offer of transport to any of the staff who wish to go to their king, and send both coaches if there are too many for just one. Have them all thoroughly searched before they climb aboard."

  Her new cook, Sam from Southwark, was not a fine chef who crafted dishes to be as splendid to look at as to taste, but a meat and gravy man who made simple tasty fare from healthy ingredients. This was a blessing for it meant the kitchen needed only half the staff. Since Britta was the only woman present at most of the officer meals, no one remarked on the lack of food sculptures or dressed head. They were too busy slurping the best gravy in the kingdom.

  Britta had solve the "listening ears" problem by having the officer's own valets do the serving, so that there was no one in the dining room who wouldn't have soon known everything that was discussed in any case. Although she was on edge that these wealthy men would find fault in her dining arrangements or the food, no one else noticed. Between sucking down the gravy, sucking down the king's wine, and discussing the events of the day and the scouting-spying reports, all the officers required from her was her pretty smile and her graceful movements as a welcome reminder that not everyone in this fortress was male.

  After her first attempt at supper had finished, she physically put Robert to bed ... in the king's bed. At first he resisted for he had things on his mind that must not be forgotten during a night's sleep. Her remedy for this was to have him write down a list of reminders for the morning. He then resisted because he felt duty bound to make a last round of the walls. Her remedy for this was to offer to flannel bath him personally. He fell asleep on the stool as she did this, but washing certain parts of him woke him up again.

  "Robert, act your age," she scolded in jest. She full well knew that why this wealthy powerful man continued to be her benefactor was because her close company made him feel younger. This arrangement had been approved of, and likely arranged by his wife the Countess Susannah. At their first meeting she had told Britta that she would rather him be constantly with one clean young woman, than be serviced by the many not-so-clean women who were available for a few hours for a few coins.

  "I am fifty and five and have spent many a long day on horseback, my lass," he whispered softly to her, "so I am right proud whenever my pecker swells up. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

  In truth she had to do very little. She gave him some kisses and bared her breasts and then led him to the bed so he could stretch out flat. "Here, rest your eyes in my breasts a while," she told him as she cradled his head and pulled his eyes full into her nipples. Moments later he was asleep, and she slipped out of his bed, re-holstered her mothering touches, and slipped out of the room to do her own last rounds.

  All was quiet in the hallways except for Ella, who she caught sneaking along the upper corridor scratching at doors in hopes of earning some extra pocket money from Robert's officers. She marched the girl into the queen's chamber and closed the door so that she could raise her voice, and then told Ella, "These men are respectable Presbyterians with wives and families, and you are also from a good upbringing. What can I believe but that you have no interest in these men or in the coin they may give you, so you must be hoping to learn their secrets by pleasuring them. So which are you, a whore or a spy?"

  "Oh please no, mistress. Don't think so ill of me," Ella recoiled. "It's just that none of us have been paid since the queen abandoned us here. That is gone ten months now. The earl's officers are all wealthy men so I am hoping that one of them will pay me well for my warmth at night."

  "Wrong, they will pay you nothing for I forbid you to do this, and if you persist in scratching at doors, then I have a sure cure for your itch. I will strip you to your petticoat and push you out of the gate. You know of course what lies beyond the gate. Six thousand young men who are without women."

  "You wouldn't," Ella recoiled even more.

  "Do you see the heap of rags in the corner. That is all that I arrived with. Go and bring me the knife you will find with them."

  The lass found a knife, a filthy carving knife, and she brought it close and set it down on the bedside table near where Britta was sitting on the queen's bed. Britta grabbed her hand and spun her around so they could stare eye to eye. "The filth on the knife is dried blood, dried German blood. The last time I used that knife was to carve German sausage because the owner of the sausage had tried to abduct me. No, I would never turn you out in your petticoat to be ravished by louts, but for the same reason I will not see you whore yourself, or see any other women in this palace whore themselves. Do you understand?"

  "I do mistress, I surely do," was the meek reply. When she looked longingly at the locked door, she noticed that a pallet bed had been dragged into the room. "Ugh, do you plan on sleeping in the queen's bed, or on the maid's pallet behind the door? It's just that no one sleeps in the queen's bed but the queen herself, or her youngest children."

  "I will try out her bed. If it is too soft I will move to the pallet."

  "But it is forbidden to all but the queen," Ella whispered in shock. "The bed is sacred just as the queen is sacred. She is descended from Mary mother of God."

  "
Don't speak such drivel. The queen is just a woman, like you or me. What myths have they been teaching you? You were one of her maids. Did her shit not stink. Did she not suffer monthly like all other women. There is nothing special about her other than the folk have been tricked into believing that she is special. She is just another wealthy woman who lives a life of privilege even though she has done nothing herself to earn it."

  Ella covered her ears with her hands. "No, you mustn't say such evil things. The queen's will is sacrosanct."

  Britta grabbed her by the arm and swung her through the curtains and onto the bed. "Take your shoes and smock off, for we are going to share this bed tonight. Now get between the linens and don't you dare move out of it while I am gone. I have one more errand to do before I sleep." It was the same errand which had taken her to the door where she had caught Ella scratching. The bed chamber of the eldest of the king's sons.

  * * * * *

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  The Pistoleer - Brentford by Skye Smith Copyright 2014

  Chapter 22 - The Bloody Queen's Bed in November 1642

  She locked the lass Ella in the queen's chambers and then skipped down the hallway to the door of a room used by Prince James, and she let herself in with her master key. She walked towards the curtained bed and called "Danny," in a hushed voice, half expecting some other officer to answer. There was a grunt from the corner of the room and she pointed the reflector of her candle lantern that way. "Danny, my dear, why aren't you in the bed? You need your sleep."