by Jake Lynch
‘Please sirs, let me round the front of them,’ Emily begged, in vain. ‘They’ll come quietly, if they see me leading them, sirs!’ The road widened out up ahead, with plenty of space for them to pass, if only the Guardsmen would make way. But they were not listening.
‘Damn your impudence, girl!’ one barked.
‘This’ll get them going,’ his companion said in a grating north-country accent, brandishing his flintlock. Emily would later remember seeing the soldier’s finger pause on the trigger, as if frozen in time. Then, for an instant, the world turned white, as the weapon discharged.
She blinked through the shock of incandescence and the sudden report, followed immediately by a loud and violent curse from the shooter. It seemed as though the man’s wrist was on fire, though as he dropped his weapon and shrugged off his jacket she could see it was actually the lower part of the sleeve. The gunshot echoed through the bare branches of Shotover Woods behind, where a flock of half a dozen magpies sought sanctuary, scolding ‘chack-chack-chack’ as they flapped away. But the terrified bellowing of her beasts drew her attention back to them – they were lumbering off, trampling down the undergrowth abutting the roadway.
Emily plucked up her skirts and followed the cattle as best she could through the gap they had made in the hedgerow. Her heart sank: she was now venturing on to land newly enclosed on behalf of the young Baron Headington, King Charles’s illegitimate son by Nell Gwynn. Any livestock found on the baronial estate could be forfeit. After a few minutes she crested a blind summit, a natural fold in the escarpment, and looked down on a derelict chapel – its stones being plundered for other buildings, now the enclosure had cut off public access to worship. Her apprehension turned to horror as the dreadful truth revealed itself. Two of the animals lay prone below her, having evidently lost their footing on the steep bank as they ran, and tumbled down among the ruins.
With a gasp, she noticed that Daisy’s foreleg was protruding at an odd angle, and a groaning sound filled her ears. But Cassie’s plight was even worse. The demolition crew had left behind a large pickaxe, wedged among the stones, and its pointed blade had pierced the milcher’s flank like a spear. The creature had rolled off the spike in trying to right herself. But now, from the wound, her life’s blood issued in rhythm with each labouring breath, dribbling out with a hiss on to the cold, smooth surface beneath. Before long, the beast keeled over with a final sigh as her half-full udder lolled, a forlorn appendage to her still, stark form. The low seething of Daisy next to her told Emily she could not give way to self-pity. She would have to strike out for home, her parents’ cottage by the barton at Magdalen, and get help. The other cattle, she would have to trust would make their own way back. And – Lord-a-Lord! – what would Farmer Pawling say?
Reaching the farm at last, she paused shivering on the threshold, and looked out over the Cherwell meads, the ancient landscape impassive under the starry firmament. As she entered, the cheery greeting froze on her mother’s lips, and the batlet she had been using to smooth the linens dropped from her fingers. She listened in anguish as Emily’s tale dribbled out between sobs. When the men had set off in their horse-drawn cart, with rope and tackle to bring back the stricken beasts, Mistress Hopkins found a tub of balsam and dabbed it on the worst of her scratches by the insipid glow of a tallow flame.
‘Daze my eyes, missy! We must hope your father don’t catch it too hard from Farmer Pawling. You mind how he takes on sometimes.’
‘I couldn’t stop them, Ma. Not once that cavalryman fired his gun.’
‘I know you couldn’t, petal. I feel for you, I do. God’s body, you’ve had some cruel luck, going out into the wide world.’
Emily shifted closer to her mother, her hand involuntarily resting on her abdomen.
‘Why, it feels like five minutes since you’d be in here of a Monday, helping with the wash-tub, and getting under my feet,’ the mother said tenderly. ‘And now look at you, set to be a married woman and have a littl’un yourself, one of these fine days.’ And she placed her own hand, reddened as it was from a day’s laundering, on her daughter’s. They sat for a moment, looking at the glowing logs in the fireplace.
‘I’m scared, Ma.’
‘I know you are, sweet. But ’twill all be for the best in the end, if it do please God.’
Later, Jacob Hopkins roused her from the chair by the hearth, with John Davies, the farrier, in tow – but his twinkle, which Emily remembered from Christmases when he would invite them in for mulled wine, was now replaced by a grave expression. Trotting to keep up with the long strides of the men, Emily crossed the yard and into the farmhouse, then up a dimly lit staircase, where Jacob knocked on the door of Robert Pawling’s study. A deep, clear voice answered, ‘Come!’ Seated behind a heavy mahogany desk, the farmer looked up from his accounts book, an ominous frown etched deeply on his brow by shadows from a sconce of thick wax candles.
‘Ah, Davies. How was it with the beasts?’
‘Well as can be expected, sir. The one was still alive, so we knocked her on the head with the hammer. No point making her suffer.’ Emily winced as she thought of poor Daisy. ‘The other was long gone. We’ll take the carcases next door, first thing.’ Next door meant to Caskey’s, where one of the farm sheds was set up as a small local slaughterhouse. A place she’d avoided since childhood.
‘Well, that’ll have cost me, then. They’ll be no better than a pair of beeves. Might fetch a few shillings, I suppose.’
Then he turned to her.
‘Now, Emily, you’d better tell me exactly what happened.’ She gulped and reddened – this was the bit she’d been dreading.
‘W-why sir, ’twas all so sudden! Them soldiers, sir, I never seen the like! Must have been hundreds of them.’
‘What colour were their uniforms?’ It seemed a strange question. Why did he want to know that? Hesitatingly, she pressed on.
‘Why, blue, sir: blue with bits of red. And they…’ but Pawling cut in, his voice rising.
‘Guardsmen! I knew it! The Royal procession! Bunch of rogues!’ The farmer tapped on the dark wood with the handle of a small brass paperknife as Emily continued.
‘I asked them to let me past, sir, so I could lead the cattle away, but there was too many of them, coming up from behind, like. Then one of them, he took out his gun, and fired it! Made such a big flash and a bang, as proper spooked the beasts, sir – they was off, straight away.’
At this, Pawling lurched to his feet and flung the implement across the room, where it clanged against the grate and skittered over the bare boards.
‘Damn their guns and damn their King! Coming here, with his debauchery and lewdness. And now they’ve murdered two of my prime milchers!’
Emily shrank back, trembling, and her father interposed himself between them.
‘You could tell Luke Sandys about it, sir – he’d know if there was aught to be done in the matter.’
‘Aye, Hopkins, aye. You’re speaking sense there,’ the farmer replied, gripping the back of the chair as he struggled to calm himself. ‘And you’ll come with me,’ he continued, with hardening resolve. ‘We’ll ride into Oxford in the morning.’
Turning back to Emily, he asked suddenly: ‘The gun made a flash, you say, as well as a bang?’
‘Aye, sir, ’twas nearly blinding!’
‘And what happened then?’
‘Why, the soldier, sir, as shot the gun, his wrist was on fire!’ she said, wide eyed at the recollection. ‘So he got off his horse, threw down his coat, and started stamping on it, by the road.’
‘Gun must have backfired, and set light to his cuff,’ Pawling murmured.
Chapter 5
A Doctor Calls
Just a few minutes’ walk from Magpie Lane, in a cosy tavern off Holywell Street, Dr John Radcliffe was on his feet.
‘So this bishop notices the young curate, eyeing up the shapely housekeeper, and giving him the odd quizzical look.’ The rapt audience kept their eyes fixed on t
he physician, as bar staff at The Spotted Cow moved among them, clearing up blood and feathers from the cock-fighting earlier.
‘And he says, “I know what you’re thinking. But I can assure you, my relationships with my domestic staff are entirely proper.”’
More came over to listen. Radcliffe’s gift for a salty anecdote was well known, and – who knew? – some of his tales might even be true.
‘So anyway,’ he continued, ‘a week later, the housekeeper comes to the bishop, and she says, “Your Grace, ever since that young curate came to supper, I’ve been unable to find the silver soup ladle. You don’t suppose he took it?” “I’m sure he didn’t,” the bishop replies, “but I’ll ask.” So, he writes to the curate: “Sir – I’m not saying you did take my silver soup ladle, but since you were here for supper, it cannot be found. Would you care to explain?”’
Little noticed by the assembled throng, a chill blast momentarily dimmed the candles as the outside door opened to reveal a burly figure in a blue-and-red military uniform. Radcliffe went on:
‘Well, a few days later, the bishop hears back from the curate. “Your Grace, I’m not saying you are sleeping with your housekeeper; but, if you slept in your own bed, you’d have found that soup ladle by now!”’
Through the gales of laughter, the newcomer rasped:
‘Is there a Dr Radcliffe here?’ Eyes turned towards the man of medicine. ‘My Colonel sent me to fetch you, sir.’
‘Why, man, ’tis too late now. Can’t you see I’m in company?’
‘Sir,’ the soldier said, ‘my orders are to bring you.’
Quite how it was accomplished, no one at the bar that night could say, in retrospect, but suddenly Radcliffe’s arm was pinioned behind his back, with the military man’s hand clamped firmly on the nape of his neck. And, before the astonished doctor could take leave of his companions, he was being marched off into the night. The pair traversed narrow lanes, sporadically illuminated when a shaft of moonlight found a gap in the high limestone walls, as the chimes of Great Tom, the bell of St Frideswide’s in Christ Church cathedral, sounded the nine o’clock student curfew.
Presently, they arrived at the back door of a tall, thin house in a grimy alleyway.
‘What the Devil’s this?’ Radcliffe demanded. ‘Your colonel doesn’t live here?’
‘Nay,’ said his military captor. ‘My colonel don’t live here, but my comrade does, and he’s worth two of the colonel, so, by God, doctor, if you don’t do your best for him, it’ll be the worse for you.’ Only when they had mounted the narrow staircase did the powerful grip relax, and the two men entered a room whose dingy fug was pierced by a single rushlight.
Wordlessly, the moustachioed ‘comrade’ presented his hand and wrist, which – even in the semi-darkness – Radcliffe could immediately see were mottled with powder burns.
‘Ah – have a backfire, did you?’ He’d seen such several times before. The scorched skin would need carefully washing, but the men had prepared a basin of water for the purpose.
‘Good job for you I had time to grab my budget before your friend here spirited me away,’ the doctor said and, delving in the bag, he found suitable salves and dressings. The soldiers watched intently as Radcliffe deftly completed the procedures, before a gruff ‘thank ye’ and a silver sixpence sent him on his way. Relieved at having, apparently, fulfilled the function expected of him, the doctor clambered back down the narrow stairs. He shut the door quietly behind him and walked – rather more quickly than was his wont, and suddenly feeling very sober – the short distance back to his college rooms for the night.
Chapter 6
Morning, and a Warning
Ed was already in the kitchen when Luke rose the next day.
‘You’d have to be up early to catch a military man still abed,’ he said as he accepted a portion of the previous night’s pie from Joan. The last one, Luke noted in disappointment. No wonder the servant avoided catching his eye.
‘Aye, well, ’twas a long night,’ he replied, warming himself by the meagre fire.
‘Of course – your dead body. Any news?’
‘Someone you know, actually. The MP, William Harbord.’
Ed hurriedly put down his piece of crust, and sucked air in through his teeth.
‘Damn me, Luke, that’ll cause a stir. How did he die?’
‘Found on the step of The Unicorn and Jacob’s Well, the tavern where we met him earlier. Big stab wound, here.’ Luke indicated the spot where Harbord had been skewered. ‘I assume the Green Ribbon men will blame it on “Papists”?’
‘Not half, they will. God’s teeth! As if the build-up to Parliament were not tense already. I shall have to tell the Colonel. And he’ll tell the Foot Guards.’
‘They were nervous enough yesterday, as it was – we had to meet Captain Sutherland at the Bodleian.’
‘Hugh Sutherland? Ginger whiskers?’ Luke nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve met him before. He’s a nervous type. Still, it can’t make their job any easier.’
The brothers sat in silence, Ed slowly munching his breakfast as Luke suppressed an urge to tap his foot. The captain was delaying his departure, obviously not relishing the job of bearing bad news.
‘That’s a pretty thing,’ he remarked, pointing out the clock in the hall as he got up to go at last. ‘I noticed it last night when Robshaw knocked us up. I’ve never seen one before, with a pendulum that long.’
‘Aye, and it cost a pretty penny.’
‘Made by William Clement, London,’ Ed read from the clock face.
‘Ah, but it’s a Dutch design. So you see, your Maastricht enemy was not just a nation of cheesemongers after all.’ This allusion to the Dutch war was greeted by his brother with a wry smile.
‘Not the enemy now,’ he replied. ‘The politicians decided to undo all our good deeds. Handed Maastricht back to William a couple of years ago, in the Treaty of Nijmegen.’
‘William?’
‘Stadtholder of the Netherlands, they call him.’
‘I hadn’t heard about the treaty.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t, unless you took the trouble to find out. No-one here wanted to make a song and dance of it.’
*
Alone at last, Luke quit the house, and retraced his steps of the previous night. As he crossed the threshold of The Mitre, big Jim Napper caught his glance from behind the counter, lifted an index finger in acknowledgement, and disappeared round the corner. Moments later, she emerged: the landlord’s twenty-one-year-old daughter, wiping her hands on her lap as she left off baking in the kitchen. Removing her apron, Cate signalled with her eyes that they should take their usual table in the corner. Trade would thicken up through the morning – for the moment, at this early hour, they had the place to themselves.
‘How are things in the city then, Luke?’ she asked, once Jim had brought their coffee, with a caraway cake for him.
‘Taken a turn for the worse.’ Those blue eyes now widened to beguiling effect, studying him with concern. ‘An MP was murdered last night: William Harbord, who I’m afraid was very prejudiced against… your people.’ She reached for the sugar, as if to sweeten the bitter news as they swallowed the dark fluid swirling in their cups.
‘So we’ll get the blame, I suppose?’ The tone was flat, as though in resignation at the seemingly unrelenting tide of troubles, shared in these, Luke’s semi-regular briefings on events in the wider world. When they started, it was Jim who would sit in conclave, while Cate brought the drinks. But the daughter proved quick on the uptake, if only while listening to snatches of the conversation. Soon, Luke found it easier to get his message across to her. And the innkeeper evidently felt no need to chaperone his daughter too closely in the company of the Chief Officer of Bailiffs: as they sipped, he busied himself in a far corner of the room.
‘You should ask your father to send word to the priests not to come for a while, at least till Parliament opens and we have a chance to see how things develop.’ He watched as Cate
fingered the crucifix under the kerchief about her neck. ‘And what about you, Cate? Would you not be safer back at Hanage House?’
‘I’ve no friends there, Luke.’ She bit her lip, as if to suppress the vehemence of her reaction, cupped her chin in one hand and momentarily turned her face away from him. Pausing to calm herself, she went on: ‘Marcus was the second son, remember. The estate was never destined for him. It was his family home, but we’d already started to think about moving out, when…’
‘Of course.’ Luke cut in quickly to obviate any account of Cate’s tragedy: the loss of her husband just a few weeks into their marriage.
Feeling Cate’s anxiety, Luke was seized with an almost irresistible instinct to envelop her in his arms, and console her with soft words and kisses: the very instinct he’d struggled to suppress, in fact, throughout the investigation into Marcus Weston’s death. She looked up beseechingly into his face, hungry for even the smallest crumb of reassurance.
‘No one knows anything, do they?’ she asked. ‘I mean, that they shouldn’t? ’Tis one thing for men to come up from London with prejudice and hatred in their hearts…’
Luke held his breath for a second, trying to keep his hands and voice steady.
‘I’ve no reason to think so. Look out for anyone hanging around or asking questions.’ He swigged the rest of the coffee. ‘And let’s pray to God we soon find Harbord’s killer, and the murder turns out to have no connection with any of these political intrigues.’
*
As he closed the door of the inn behind him, Luke was accosted by a pamphlet seller.
‘Master Settle’s latest, sir? Vindication of the Character of a Popish Successor. New out in time for Parliament.’ Luke handed over a sixpence, and folded back the cover as he strolled along the High Street towards the Guildhall. The opening seemed exceptional in its hyperbolic rage, even by the standards of the day: ‘Truly, when tho’ by the permission or aid of any English King, Popery, Superstition, Idolatry and Cruelty, are ent’ring our gates, and are ready to butcher our Protestant Ministers at their Divine Worship, make Human Smithfield Sacrifice of us, our Wives and Children; we justly may resist the invading Tyrannick Power of Rome.’ He closed it again with a grimace. If Harbord’s murder was to be blamed on the baleful influence of ‘Rome’, then that kind of rhetoric – on sale at every street corner – could only encourage someone to seek out targets to strike back, as an act of ‘just resistance’. It had seemed unnecessary to go into detail with Cate about the Green Ribbon club and their anti-Catholic agitation. But he had sounded, he now realised, less worried than he felt.