“Do I presume we have an understanding sir?”
Eagleton frowned.
“I’ll have the necessary papers drawn up. But I will hear no more of this Sparrow. I do not have the time for every damsel in distress you come across, no matter how desperate.”
Sparrow nodded.
“And as to your own situation, you will write that poor flirtgill’s father asking for her hand in marriage forthwith. I want this matter settled. Properly. No excuses. And no loose ends.”
It was two years too late for that. Mary Keziah’s father was dead. Drowned at a skirmish outside Bath. Poor old Greggy the carter. Sparrow had known the old fellow since he was a little boy.
“I will have a copy on your desk by the morning,” Sparrow vowed.
“And nothing more. No more favours, requests. You must amend your ways Sparrow, we’ve no time for this mummery.”
“No sir. Shall I inform Captain Gillingfeather?”
“No. Tell him to report to me at headquarters. I want no more shenanigans Sparrow.”
“Of course not sir. Thank you for your time and consideration.”
Eagleton paused.
“Sparrow. A moment. There is one other thing you can assist me with.”
Ah, here we go, Sparrow thought. Payback time.
“Remind me of the whereabouts of the unfortunate young woman.”
Sparrow paused. Which unfortunate woman did he mean?
“The mother of your babe?” Eagleton reminded him.
“Ah! Oh her…of course. Mary Keziah you mean.”
“Mary Keziah.” Eagleton glared. Didn’t do playing the joker with flint hearts like him.
“I mean, sir, she is in Chipping Marleward…that is, well, Bristol these days. That’s where I have been sending the money I mentioned.”
Might just as well remind the rogue of his basic good character.
“In service, I think you said.”
“Indeed sir, with…” He cursed under his breath.
“Sir Gilbert Morrison.”
“Indeed.”
Eagleton nodded. Sparrow wondered where this was going, nowhere any good, that was certain.
“Just so. I must get to headquarters, if you don‘t mind. These matters can wait, aye, for now,” Sparrow breathed out. “But I will be summoning you for further service, before too long. It’s time you settled your account, Sparrow.”
Cryptic as ever.
“I am at your service sir,” Sparrow assured him with all the dignity and sincerity he could muster.
“Good. Thank you, Captain Sparrow,” Eagleton said. Sparrow could have sworn he’d cracked a smile as he hurried off to find army headquarters.
Captain Sparrow. Had a certain ring to it.
By Leicester, June 18, 1645
Long and bitter experience of dealing with men had taught her perseverance generally paid off in the end. One way or another, they usually gave in, eventually.
You simply had to know which string to pull. And some strings were bigger than others.
The clerk for instance. Wrapped up tighter than a duck’s arse in the mating season.
But not unsusceptible to her charms, when applied in strict moderation.
Overdo it with pen-pushers like him and they would revert to type, squawk and flap like pullets in a pen. Hide behind their bibles and scripture.
God how she hated hypocrites.
“I am obliged sir, much obliged, for your…kindnesses,” she said, allowing her voice to crack enough to tug his threadbare heartstrings.
Master Eagleton replaced the list on the table.
“Right glad I am madam, to bring you this small reassurance.”
It was there in the army secretary’s standard copperplate handwriting. The New Model documented everything from cannon balls to bowel movements, so it was natural the woman’s husband would be listed somewhere.
Taken at Marston Thrussel after Naseby fight; Sir George Winter, Colonel Newark Horse. With diverse stragglers from the Queen’s regiment. Thirteen slain and buried in that place, troopers of the Queen’s regiment and three others regiment unknown.
The lady’s husband then, safe enough.
“God be praised. But no word here of my son…Lieutenant Thomas Winter?”
She hadn’t faked that, the note of genuine concern.
She’d begged him to stay back but he had insisted on trotting out with the rest.
Damn him, stubborn as his father.
Master Eagleton gestured at the sheaf of papers he had examined at such length. But common courtesy – and common sense – told him this was a Lady who was not to be trifled with. Which is why he had spared her an hour and more of his time.
It might prove time well spent, if she could be persuaded to see the unfortunate agitations at the Royalist camp in the context of heat of the moment excess. Eagleton wouldn’t want the new-moulded army’s dirty laundry to be aired in public - in every lying news sheet from here to Cornwall.
“He is not on the list of prisoners, nor has he been identified among the, deceased.”
Lady Winter stifled a sob.
So Georgey had survived the battle. Not that he was much use to her marching off to London with the rest of the haul.
Four thousand and more common soldiers. Five hundred experienced officers.
Lady Winter was no strategist, but she knew Naseby had proved a complete catastrophe. The King’s narrow hopes of saving something had been dashed. And the Winter family fortune with them, she wouldn’t wonder.
She had ensured what small reserves they had left had remained within her grasp during the disastrous aftermath of the battle, but it would have helped to have her husband around to talk his way through the New Model’s labyrinthine administrative system.
Not that this set of squinting, fish-eyed gnomes were worth a pint of cold piss whatever damned role they’d managed to wangle themselves.
“I will of course write to his excellency Prince Rupert, inquiring as to young Thomas’ wellbeing.”
That at least was something. She stifled another sob, risked touching his hand.
The grubby, black-suited bastard jumped as if she’d dropped a hot iron on his ink stained fingers.
“I am in your debt,” she breathed, lowering her voice to a husky croak and favouring him with a tearful glance.
Eagleton swallowed.
“The least we could do, in the terrible circumstances. Captain Sparrow has told me something of your ordeal.” He waved his hand as if it would dismiss the thousand horrors the beasts had unleashed on those poor women and girls caught up in the rout.
Soldiers of Christ? Filthy cunny hungry hounds, let off the leash and reverting to type, she thought hotly.
Men were so unbelievably weak. Unable to control their basest instincts, at the mercy of their mouldy pricks. A whole army of rotten pricks.
And from what she had seen, these mealy-mouthed Roundheads were no better than the cavorting rogues who flocked to the King’s army like moths to a flame.
“Captain Sparrow has been most kind. He has shown admirable tact, dealing with poor Captain…poor Johnny.”
Captain no longer. Sparrow hadn’t hung about, no sooner arresting the drunken fool and clapping him in irons than hurrying off to army headquarters and usurping his company before they’d had the time to write out the warrant.
The big sergeant was clearly a tad too big for his boots, but at least he was no fool. He’d shown admirable ambition at least. Worth cultivating, to be sure.
He’d hardly managed to tear his eyes from her bosom, but at least he’d not tried to disguise his lechery behind some sanctimonious claptrap like these mealy-mouthed turds.
In the absence of anybody else, he might prove useful. Until she was back on her feet and safely away from these damned Roundheads.
Poor Rondo had hardly managed to sober himself up yet. He was still under guard at the inn. Captain Sparrow’s temporary headquarters.
She liked him
. That was the trouble. Rondo. The careless, boyish grin, the soft curls he would tuck behind his ears. Damnably handsome, at once cocky and vulnerable.
But whatever poor John had witnessed in the devastated Royalist baggage camp had dislocated his mind. Left him staring like a slack-jawed scarecrow. A sudden change in mood, in thought, in understanding, as if he’d been struck a glancing blow by a culverin ball.
The silly laughter, out of control. As suddenly shrill as the screaming girls.
Lady Winter had pulled at his arm. She had slapped his face as hard as she dared. He had cried and blubbered and pointed. Mouth opening and closing like a twitching carp.
She’d never seen anything like it, not since Arbright had strung those poor Irishers up outside Bernham Hall, hours before Prince Rupert had arrived to lift the siege of the Winter family home.
That had shaken up some of her soldiers and servants. Put them into a speechless, shocked trance. Took them weeks to shake themselves out of it and all. Funny how blood and death took some folk, others walked on by as if they were stepping over a puddle in the street, blissfully whistling amongst somebody else’s carnage.
Rondo had seen all. Seen all and suffered. As if he had somehow assumed responsibility for all the pain and small-minded hurt inflicted by the rebel skirmishers. As if he had absorbed their monstrous crimes, crunched it all down inside and carried it away with him.
Finally realising all was lost she had flung him over a stray horse, led him off through the chaos shrieking and snarling in grief, hurling obscenities and threats at any soldier who strayed too close.
The sight of a dumbly staring half-corpse being dragged off by a demented lady had persuaded most to keep their distance. If they insisted on approaching she’d pulled the horse pistol from beneath her skirts.
The one drunken stoat who’d ignored the brandished firearm and strode up for a closer look and a crafty feel, she’d shot between his piglet eyes.
“Sparrow has him under guard, until the matter can be brought to judgement. This would seem sensible, given that Sir Thomas has issued marching orders for the day after tomorrow.”
He didn’t hang about, this Northern Hannibal. This Yorkshire Caesar. He meant to give the King no respite. No respite at all.
“I don’t know how to thank you sir,” Lady Winter suggested. Eagleton’s crafty mind turned cartwheels imagining.
He was welcome.
*************************
Muffet and Butcher were still trying to talk him out of it. According to the agitated musketeers the company was ready to mutiny, if he didn’t come back and take over from the deeply unpopular Gillingfeather. Mutiny? Did they imagine they were pirates on the high seas?
“They’ve done what, signed a petition?”
“Aye, to keep you on. You’ve been with us from the start, well, not in Merrick’s. We nivver knew you then. But after. Lansdown and that.”
“Asking them to reinstate me?”
“Aye. We knew you’d be pleased,” Butcher said, mistaking Sparrow’s red-faced exasperation for simple embarrassment.
“And what have they done with their, petition,” Sparrow inquired, shaking his head.
“We’re going to pass it on to Major Smith, to hand on to Sir Hardress Waller.”
“You can’t do that,” Sparrow fretted. “You’ll ruin all. I practically begged Eagleton to sign my papers. You go stirring things up now and he’ll change his bloody mind and bust me down to pikeman.”
They were still arguing half an hour later when a delegation of dragoons had appeared with bloody petitions of their own. To keep their man Rondo safe where they could look after him.
According to the dragoons, Lady Winter was talking about dragging the halfwit off with her stitched-up whores to God knew where.
Sparrow shook his head. By Christ, what were things coming to? Couldn’t anybody obey an order in this damned army?
The musketeers and the newcomer dragoons eyed one another.
Corporal Coucher wasn’t sure which way the wind was blowing and Corporal Snow was watching him through those bright blue eyes.
Snow had quite liked the Bristol bumpkin when he’d stopped by to buy that sorrel. He liked him even more now. Not many men in this army had the balls to march up to headquarters and talk themselves into a captaincy. A bloody captaincy mind.
Snow had imagined they might have wangled something, given the casualty lists and to-ing and fro-ing. But here he was a day later, the ink barely dry on his commission.
All written out, official like.
Dated June 18 1645. Sergeant William Sparrow, formerly of Captain Gillingfeather’s company, Sir Hardress Waller’s regiment, posted Captain to Sir John Okey’s regiment of dragoons. Signed Nathaniel Eagleton, commissioner to the army.
Sparrow looked up from his precious papers, watched Lady Winter glide into the partially cleared inn. By God she knew how to make an entrance.
Snow followed Sparrow’s gaze, watched the woman stride into the room. And then modify her stance, lower her chin as if she was some weak-kneed virgin. She was class, this one, he mused. Sparrow was smitten, that was clear enough. Colouring up like a booby.
“Captain Sparrow sir. I am pleased to report my husband is alive, if not particularly well. A prisoner sir, bound for London as we speak.”
Sparrow opened his mouth but thought better of it. He held the slip of paper up to the assembled soldiery.
“One moment my Lady.” He prised himself to his feet, adjusted the buttons on his somewhat overstretched grey doublet.
“Look, Colston. Billy. It’s here in black ink. All above board. Captain Sparrow, Okey’s dragoons.” He took off his hat and scratched the lank brown curls.
“After all these years, after all our service?” Billy exclaimed. “And you’re off to join the bleedin’ cavalry?”
“Dragoons,” Sparrow corrected, ushering them toward the door. “I’ll catch up with you, before we march,” he assured them.
“That’s right, throw us out. Not worthy of your company now,” the musketeer complained.
Sparrow gave them one last shove.
“I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in that rogue’s company,” Sparrow explained. “You saw us in camp after the battle. Any more of his sh…his damned drivel and I would have dropped him one, so help me.”
Muffet was about to argue the point but Sparrow tugged the door to.
“Thank you gentlemen,” he called through the splintered planking.
“We’ll go with you if need be Will! Half the company’s ready to do Gillingfeather in over his breakfast!”
“Don’t talk rot, bugger off back there before he has you on a charge too,” Sparrow urged, dropping his shoulder against the door.
The dragoons and musketeers paused by the musket-butted doorframe, looking each other up and down. Snow broke the impasse, nodding on down the street toward the High Cross and headquarters.
“We’d best get back. The pay’s arrived.” Butcher narrowed his eyes.
“Pay? We haven’t seen a shilling in six months,” he snorted.
Muffet took the pipe from his mouth for a moment.
“Where did you hear this?”
Snow tapped his nose.
“Friends in high places. Besides, three troops of Fairfax’s horse have ridden out to escort it in.”
Muffet and Butcher exchanged glances.
“Right you are then. Let’s go and get our bloody money.”
*************************
Sparrow turned and smiled awkwardly at Lady Winter, waiting patiently in the half-swept trash. She was sifting through the papers on the table, mildly curious.
Sparrow recovered the bundle, straightened the pages and replaced them in his satchel.
She raised her eyebrows.
“Your men seem concerned at your promotion. I believe you can take that as a genuine tribute to your service with them sir.” She meant that at least. Soldiers couldn’t fake sincerity.
Sparrow fastened the satchel, looking absurdly pleased at the compliment.
“I’ve been with them since Lansdown. They’ve watched over me ever since, and I them,” he allowed himself a small measure of credit. She liked this one too, though he wasn’t strictly her type. He was more nervous now his friends had gone, uncomfortable to find himself alone with her. As if he couldn’t quite trust himself with her.
Not much Puritan in this one. Thank the Lord.
Lady Winter was always amused by these games, these deployments and manoeuvres, sudden sallies and panicked withdrawls. She’d had her share of them and all.
More fun than hunting to hounds.
“I am glad your husband is alive and well,” Sparrow said, showing her to one of the few chairs which hadn’t been splintered.
Husband. Ah yes. Reminding her of the boundaries which existed between them.
“What news of your lad?” he inquired as she took the seat, watched him draw up the settle.
“No news, yet. Master Eagleton is making inquiries with his excellency Prince Rupert.”
“But no news, is good news,” he said limply. “That’s what I always say.”
He noticed her eyes flicker toward the stairs.
By Christ, grief was one thing – she wasn’t offering herself? His mind leapt. His cock twitched in his constricting breeches.
“Where is Captain Rondo?” she inquired, settling her gaze back on the discomfited Roundhead.
“Rondo?” The jabbering drunk whose company he had acquired. What a satisfying piece of business that had been, he thought. But shagging this distressed damsel could see him tumbled all the way back out again. He daren’t, daren’t let that happen.
Sparrow gripped his erection, disguising the manoeuvre behind a rapid deployment of his grey breeches.
Eagleton had yielded to his persistence, but he would not succumb a third time.
She was a beauty alright, out of his reach by rights. But here she was, sitting back in her chair, flushed from her energetic march from army headquarters. Where she had been busy making deals of her own, Sparrow reflected.
“He’s in the cellar. Sobering up. He’ll be out for an hour or two yet.”
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