Ensign Royal

by Ensign Royal (retail) (epub)

  As I was escorted out into the yard, blinking against the unfamiliar and strong light of a late afternoon in summer, I spied a craft at the castle’s jetty. It had a familiar look to it, and so did the man upon the quayside. Henfield saw me in that moment, and smiled. Then he nodded to the grim, mounted figure of Colonel Wyeth, evidently commanding my escort in person. Cornet Wilson was mounted by his side, and I observed Tancred’s furious glance in his direction. So I was betrayed indeed; more entirely than I could ever have imagined. If Henfield was a traitor, then the lives of my brother and countless good, worthy agents of the king must be in danger too. But no man would ever know, now. For Matthew Quinton was on his way to London for interrogation before the Lord Protector, and thence to his most certain death.

  Chapter Seven

  We must have been a grim sight indeed, riding down the highway from Upnor to Strood and thence onto the London road: a dozen heavily armed cavalrymen of the New Model Army, headed by a colonel and a cornet, escorting one filthy prisoner. Many along the roadside jeered at me in contempt, but others hid themselves away at our approach, and still others – albeit only a few – looked upon me with something akin to pity. Whatever their reaction to me, the response to the spectacle of Wyeth and his men was always the same: pure, unsullied fear. This was Cromwell’s England, this so-called godly Commonwealth where, in truth, the swordsmen ruled all.

  Wyeth said not a word to me during our journey. Whatever orders he had received from London were not to be divulged to his prisoner. He spoke occasionally with Wilson, but that was the extent of his discourse. Otherwise we rode on in silence, on into the long June evening, then into the early part of the night. Wyeth showed no sign of stopping. Surely it could not be his intention to ride through the darkness?

  Out of Strood we began to climb a great hill, and from inn signs and the like, I suddenly realised where I was. Shakespeare: the first part of King Henry the Fourth. This could only be Gad’s Hill, where Prince Hal plays a mighty jest upon that old braggart Sir John Falstaff. Yet I had heard tell of this place in more modern times, too. As the road began to break up into deeper and deeper ruts, caused no doubt by countless carts struggling up the hill in poor weather, I recalled that this was said to be a favoured haunt of highwaymen, cutpurses and murderers. More fool any such that might be on the road tonight, I thought; a dozen Ironsides would give them ample pause to reconsider their choice of vocation.

  In that moment, the lead trooper’s horse reared. I looked up, and was aware that all around me, Wyeth’s men were reining in and reaching for their weapons. I glanced ahead, craning my neck to see through gaps between the soldiers. The moon was bright, and I perceived that there was a coach, lying at a crazy angle over the side of the road. A short, round man was kneeling down with his back to us, inspecting the damage. A wheel seemed to have sheered from the axle: a common occurrence on our English roads, notoriously the worst in Christendom. What was uncommon was the personage who stood before the coach, wringing hands, weeping and protesting the unfairness of it all. She was buxom, with a long oval face and attired in a remarkably provocative and decidedly expensive blue gown, barely concealed beneath a thin cape. But the most remarkable thing about her was her hair, an astonishing cascade of red-gold ringlets. I glanced at Colonel Wyeth, the archetypal godly officer, and smiled. Young as I was, I recognised at once that within the breast of my captor, the Puritan notions of virtue and celibacy were battling against rather more primal and manly instincts.

  ‘Oh, sir!’ the forlorn lady cried. ‘Thanks be to God!’

  Stranger still, Wyeth evidently recognised her. ‘My Lady!’ he cried. ‘Sweet Father in Heaven, Madam, what is it you do here?’

  ‘You are a colonel, I think, by your attire and bearing?’ Wyeth positively preened himself. ‘Why, sir, I was upon the road from the coast to visit my dear friend at Whitehall –’

  She looked him directly in the eye, and the brutal, unflinching Wyeth that I knew was gone. In his place was a flustered innocent, hastily most of his troops down from their horses to assist with the righting of the coach. Two men and the impassive Cornet Wilson were ordered to keep close watch upon me.

  The first dragoon reached the problematic wheel, tapped the man scrutinising it upon his shoulder, and was greeted by the fellow swivelling around upon his heel. I caught the glint of a blade in the moonlight, just before it was thrust deeply into the man’s gut, beneath the line of his breastplate and jerkin. And in that moment, I also saw the round man’s face. It was one I knew well: that of Phineas Musk, steward of my brother’s London house, the very man whose name I had plucked out of the air as a feeble alias to deceive Wyeth.

  The first shot came almost in the same moment. The volume of the explosion suggested that it was at point blank range, and it blew off the back of the skull of my right-hand guard, splattering me with his foul brain-gore. A half dozen other shots echoed across Gad’s Hill, and precisely the same number of Wyeth’s troopers fell to earth. I struggled against my bonds, hoping somehow to join the fray, but in vain. Yet my efforts attracted the attention of my other guard. He reached for his sword, but before he could unsheathe it Cornet Wilson’s blade buried itself deep into his side, the young officer nodding grimly to me as he withdrew it and the guard’s body fell to earth. It still took my mind several moments to realise the truth. This man, uniformed in the helmet and armour of the New Model, was a cavalier. He was one of us.

  Colonel Wyeth’s face twisted in fury as he witnessed the betrayal. He turned in his saddle and drew his sword, but he was already too late. I heard a thunder of hooves behind me. I turned, and saw –

  At first I thought I witnessed the spectral image of my father, sword drawn, riding to his death upon Naseby field. But within a moment, I knew my vision was only a half truth. An Earl of Ravensden did indeed ride past me, his sword directed at the head of his enemy; but this earl was my brother, Charles. I watched in fascinated horror as his weapon turned upward at the last moment, piercing Wyeth’s neck just beneath the visor strap and burying itself deep in the innards of my adversary’s skull. A fountain of blood spurted from Wyeth’s neck, and his corpse fell back in the saddle, splayed out like some obscene parody of a crucifixion.

  I was dimly aware of the slaughter all around me. Perhaps half a dozen darkly clad men had sprung from the woods at the moment of my brother’s charge and were putting paid to the surviving troopers.

  After barely moments of carnage, only one of Wyeth’s men was still mounted. He was turning his horse, evidently intent upon retreat. I kicked out, but could not stay him. The man spurred his mount, and would soon be at the gallop and away to raise the alarm –

  A shot rang out. The soldier sagged to his left side, then fell from the horse and was still upon the road.

  I turned, and saw the so-demure lady holding a smoking pistol that she must have produced from beneath her skirts. There was something about her expression that suggested this was not the first time she had killed a man.

  My brother rode over, released my bonds, and nodded appreciatively toward the unlikely murderess. ‘A fair shot by night, My Lady.’

  ‘Your men missed him at closer range, My Lord.’ There was a trace of the Scots in her voice. ‘How would your madcap scheme have fared without both my aim and my acting, Lord Ravensden?’

  ‘You are, dearest Bett, the most accomplished of actresses.’ Charles smiled. This in itself was rare enough, but the broad, open smile he bestowed upon this woman was something I had witnessed perhaps a dozen times in my entire life. ‘But I neglect propriety,’ said the Earl. ‘This, as you know, My Lady, is my brother, Matthew, the heir to Ravensden. And to you, brother, I name the most noble Lady Elizabeth, Countess of Dysart suo jure. Do not let her womanly appearance deceive you, Matt. My Lady is worth a regiment in the king’s cause.’

  ‘Oh, Charles,’ said the Countess playfully, ‘you were ever the most understated of men. Surely I am worth an entire army?’

  The Earl
grinned boyishly, then turned to acknowledge Cornet Wilson, still mounted at my side. ‘A grim business, Jack,’ my brother said.

  ‘Grimmer than it should have been, My Lord,’ said Wilson. ‘Altogether too grim for a man to escape it unscathed.’

  Wordlessly, he tore his sleeve and bared his arm. Charles looked at him quizzically, but Wilson’s expression was emphatic. Lady Dysart turned away. Then, and without further hesitation, my brother raised his sword and slashed it sharply across Wilson’s arm. The young Cornet cried out and gripped the wound. As the blood oozed over his fingers, Charles handed him a piece of cloth. Wilson tied it around the cut.

  ‘The King will remember and reward your services, Jack Wilson,’ Charles said.

  ‘As will the Lord Protector,’ said Lady Dysart, now willing to look upon the scene once again. ‘You are doubly blessed, Cornet.’

  Charles raised a hand for silence. Now we could all hear a distant hoofbeat – not urgent, not even a canter – and the even more distant sound of cartwheels.

  ‘We must away,’ said Charles, urgently. ‘You will be safe, My Lady?’

  The Countess of Dysart seemed utterly unconcerned. ‘Of course, Charles. Did not these valiant and godly men of the New Model fall while defending the life of a dear friend of His Highness, the Lord Protector, against a foul gang of highwaymen? And will not the witness of the valiant and wounded Cornet Wilson confirm my testimony?’

  Wilson and my brother nodded admiringly. ‘Only from your lips could such an explanation become believable, dear Bett,’ said Charles. ‘Give Old Noll my compliments, My Lady Dysart!’

  With that, he signalled our party to mount and ride. But I could not bid adieu without making a last request. ‘Cornet Wilson,’ I said as I mounted, ‘promise me one thing. Promise that by one means or another, you will bring to a reckoning that murderous villain, Tancred.’

  The man nodded. ‘I swear it gladly, Ensign Quinton. I have sworn the same to myself many times, for the old cur has crossed me too often – as you witnessed that once.’ Wilson smiled. ‘And Wyeth’s death will mean a brief interregnum in the command. Who knows what anarchies and vile crimes might be committed during such a time upon an upright officer of the Commonwealth?’

  My brother gestured to me. He was impatient to be upon the road, and thus, with last bows of my head to Cornet Wilson and the Lady Dysart, I impelled my horse forward.

  Three of Charles’s men rode east, back toward Strood and Rochester, while the rest of us rode west toward London. But only a little beyond Gad’s Hill, several more of our men peeled away onto a road south, leaving just Charles, Musk and I riding at a canter, as easily as any innocent men might.

  ‘Thank you, Charles,’ I said at length.

  ‘Thank me? You should be cursing me, brother. It was I who led you into these dangers. It was thus incumbent on me to extract you from them. And how do you think I would have answered to our mother if I had not?’

  ‘But you merely wished me to deliver the letter! All the rest was my doing – my stupidity at falling into the enemy’s hands –’

  ‘Not so, Matt.’ Charles’s expression was grim. ‘When I told you at Nieuwpoort that I had a vested interest in the life of the heir to Ravensden, I was not being entirely open with you.’ He was silent, looking at me with a strange expression: brotherly love, yes, but I fancied I saw fear and regret, too. ‘I put you in peril, brother. We suspected a traitor in our ranks, and in the time available to me, you were the only means I had to smoke him out.’

  I recalled the smirking face upon the wharf at Upnor Castle – ‘Henfield,’ I said.

  ‘We have had suspicions of Henfield for months,’ said Charles. ‘Three couriers have been betrayed in that time. But our Master Henfield is cunning, despite being nought but a rude tarpaulin, for another four that he transported reached their destinations safely. And we have so many links in our chains, there was always a chance that the traitor was someone other.’

  ‘So you set a trap for him,’ I said, barely able to digest what I was hearing.

  ‘Indeed. A courier whom he was bound to betray – whose name alone guaranteed it.’ Charles glanced at me, but did not hold my eye. ‘I am sorry for endangering you so, brother, but it was essential you did not know my intent. You are unpractised in the arts of the spy, and I could not risk you somehow revealing my scheme to Henfield.’

  Anger welled within my breast, but I could say nothing. Charles was so much my elder, and also my lord, that I was still more than a little in awe of him; and even in the depths of my bitterness at being endangered thus, I could see the reason in his argument.

  ‘Didn’t help that you buggered his lordship’s plan, either,’ said Musk with his customary earthy bluntness.

  Charles nodded. ‘A particularly well laid plan. I ensured that Henfield knew the password, but not the identity of the agent you were to meet – an actor of my acquaintance named Follett, who can play the part of a hell-fire preacher to perfection.’ I learned only later that to Charles, Follett was rather more than simply an actor of his acquaintance. ‘Henfield’s puppetmasters were certain to want to capture both you and that agent, which meant they had to have men either inside the alehouse or surrounding it, or both. Thus we were certain that if Henfield was a traitor, an Ironside patrol had to be present in that precise place, at that precise time. The late Colonel Wyeth was a stickler for routine and his precious duty rosters. All that was needed was to ensure you were in the alehouse when Cornet Wilson was on duty, and was bound to be despatched in command of the patrol. Wilson would arrest you and Follett, take the letter from you, then ensure you both escaped before you reached Upnor, at a place upon the road where our men could take charge of you and spirit you out of England. The letter would thus be transmitted safely onward, you would be in no danger, Wilson and Follett would remain secure, and Henfield’s treachery would be exposed.’

  ‘But you buggered it up, Master Quinton,’ said Musk.

  ‘I could not have known that Wilson was our man –’ I protested.

  Charles looked at me pointedly. ‘Matt, do you really think any officer truly serving the Lord Protector is stupid enough to leave unsecured the back of a building he intends to invest?’ He shook his head. ‘God alone knows how Wilson convinced the men under him to adopt so careless a stratagem. More than once, he has only narrowly fended off suspicions of being fond of our cause. A markedly brave young man – alas that we have so few like him within the New Model itself.’ Charles spoke more quietly. ‘But what really did for my careful scheme was the unexpected presence of your friend. The young man fought with rare vigour and skill, I’m told, until a musket-butt to the head rendered him insensible.’

  I felt a sudden giddiness. ‘Poor Tom,’ I murmured.

  Charles was more sympathetic. ‘He was a good man?’

  ‘A Ranter,’ I said. Musk snorted derisively, although in truth his moral precepts, if such they could be called, were not entirely dissimilar to those of the feared sect. ‘Tom Clarabut, by name. A deserter from the army. He had no need to imperil himself for me, for he hated my principles and I his, but still he sacrificed himself that I could escape. And for that, brother, they emptied a musket volley into him.’

  ‘I shall pray for him,’ said Charles, meaning it. ‘Whatever his beliefs, he saved the life of the heir to Ravensden. Whether that is sufficient to save his soul from the eternal flames of Hell is a different case.’

  I thought hard upon my brother’s words. Should I have resented being used so? And yet my betrayal had revealed a traitor to the king’s cause, and thus surely had been of great use to His Majesty’s service –

  ‘The letter?’ I demanded. ‘The letter to Tristram? Was that but a ruse too, brother, or has Tris paid the price for your presumption and my incompetence?’

  ‘No,’ said Charles emphatically. ‘Even to expose Henfield, I would not have risked you for a mere chimera, Matt. There were – there are other reasons why you, and no other, had to
carry that letter.’ It was immediately evident that My Lord Ravensden had no intention of revealing those reasons to me. ‘If my plan had proceeded as I designed it, you would have delivered the letter to Follett, who would have transmitted it onward. As it is, the letter still reached its destination, albeit through the unexpected medium of your Colonel Wyeth. And our uncle is safe. A loyal servant of His Highness the Lord Protector, as he always was.’

  ‘Just like My Lady Dysart,’ chuckled Musk, ‘only less comely.’

  We rode on but another mile or two. Then Charles reined in, and it was clear this was a parting of the ways.

  ‘Musk will take you on to Gravesend,’ said the earl. ‘We have procured a berth for you on a craft to take you back to Flanders, and an entirely authentic pass issued by the Protector permitting Matthew Quinton, esquire, to leave the country.’ A pass presumably the doing of Tristram Quinton, that so-loyal servant of Noll Cromwell. ‘Fear not, brother,’ said Charles, smiling. ‘Don John deploys his army against Dunkirk so slowly that you may live another ten years and still not miss the battle to come.’

  ‘And you, My Lord?’

  Charles pursed his lips. ‘I have an appointment with our Master Henfield, Matt. And he has an appointment with the grave.’

  Chapter Eight

  Don Alonso de Villasanchez was incredulous.

  ‘To encamp here, so close to the enemy, and yet not to entrench? Madness. Supreme folly. It will bring the French down upon us in the morning as surely as the rising of the sun.’

  With that, he went off in search of a fresh bladder of wine. I exchanged bemused glances with Dick Norris and Francis Kilvern, my guests at this billet beneath the stars in the sand dunes north-east of Dunkirk.