by Lesley Lodge
The body was mostly unclothed but a bloodied under–tunic covered the chest. Wayland eased it up and they counted five stab wounds about the torso. The first was a lone, straight line and the next two were vertical slashes connected in the middle by a horizontal cut. The fifth wound, though, was a jagged swirl. Gently, Geddingly eased the small remaining cloth down a little, exposing the end of the swirl wound. The two men stood silent a moment, aghast.
‘Any one of those wounds would have killed him through loss of blood – would it not?’ Wayland asked at last. Geddingly stared at him.
‘You don’t agree?’ Wayland asked, surprised.
‘Do you not see?’ Geddingly said, ‘Can you not see? This one –’ he pointed at the vertical slashes ‘– is a sign.’
‘A sign?’ Wayland looked closer, ‘How do you make it that?’
‘It’s a cross.’ Geddingly said, tracing the pattern in the air, his forefinger not touching but hovering rather, just above the boy’s torso.
‘But there are too many lines to it,’ Wayland said, his face a blank.
‘It’s still a cross, a religious symbol.’
‘Yeeess, I see you could make it that,’ Wayland said slowly, ‘so it’s a Christian symbol then?’
‘Yes. Of course. Have you learnt nothing in church? Nothing from the old teachings? Nothing from the new teachings? ‘Tis a Papist symbol now, one we are now rightly to abhor. And Popery being the King’s own religion whether he owns to it or no, this must surely hint at a Royalist killer – must it not?’ Geddingly replied.
Wayland said nothing, not because he had no desire to be further mocked by the magistrate – though certainly he had not – but because he knew Geddingly to be fervently Puritan and therefore a firm supporter of Cromwell and the Parliamentary side, anti–Catholic and very likely seeing the Pope’s hand everywhere. So he doubted that he’d secure an unbiased opinion. He gently wiped the edges of the boy’s wounds and studied them again, hoping the appearance of such a cross was just an illusion the man had, influenced by his strong views. Yet in truth, as he wiped, he could see it more clearly now. The horror of the wounds alone had numbed his brain somewhat and he struggled to understand the import of Geddingly’s discovery.
‘Have you seen such signs before?’ he asked.
Geddingly stared at Wayland, then looked quickly away. He didn’t answer.
‘What could it mean then? Does it signify some kind of devilish rite?’ Wayland asked finally, more in puzzlement than in expectation of an answer.
‘The Devil is in league with the Whore of Babylon so…’ Geddingly began with an obviously well–practised rant about Popery but stopped short. ‘But maybe it’s more like a message, I would venture,’ he said, more slowly.
‘A message? But what is it saying? Does it tell us the murderer is a Papist? Or is it the murderer suggesting that this poor lad was a Papist?’ Wayland’s questions came quickly now, fuelled by his exasperation.
‘There’s little point in asking me. Ask a Papist,’ said Geddingly, ‘though it seems clear enough to me that no Puritan could do such a deed as this. I’d say it was some Catholic – and even then it would need to be a Catholic in clear league with the Devil.’
Wayland had his doubts that villains could be so easily separated from ordinary folk by the straight line of religion but he said nothing. They stood there a while in silence as the last light faded.
‘Well,’ said Geddingly at last, ‘what to do? I’ll get the body taken to the church for now. In the morning I’ll start some enquiries. Coroner will want to hold some kind of proper enquiry but it’ll be a couple of days before he can get here. Meantime, our priorities must be to find the boy’s parents – and start hunting down his killer.’
‘Very well,’ replied Wayland, ‘I’ll be off now. You’ll be wanting me for the enquiry?’
‘Aye. You’ll need to tell of the discovery. Farewell,’ Geddingly said before pausing, ‘but what about the horse? Stane said there was a horse.’
‘Horse? Oh yes, the horse and missing rider. That’ll have to do another day.’
‘You see no connection then?’ Geddingly asked.
Wayland thought a while. ‘You may be right. Can’t say that I see right off what connection though. No mere lad would have such a horse and his clothes don’t speak to me of a wealthy father. And if it were the killer’s horse, would he not have used it to get well away? Still, it does bear looking into.’
He wiped his hands down on his jerkin and set off back.
As he reached the smithy he stopped short. His living area – the part of the smithy building where he slept, cooked and sometimes washed – was in darkness already. He had expected that Jonathan would have lit a couple of candles on by now, maybe even have warmed some broth. Damn it, the boy was twelve. Yes he’d had a rough time, seen unknown horrors, had lost his tongue for over a year, but none of that should keep him from his duties. Or – he felt his heart start to thump – or something was not right. He walked up slowly to the door, holding his breath for quietness. Gently he turned the door handle. A little light from the rising moon behind him shone through the door.
Wayland saw the glint from the musket barrel first. There was a man, seated in Wayland’s own chair, with a musket across his knee. The musket was pointed just to the right of the door.
5.
Naseby 1645, 14 June, a short way from the battlefield. About 2pm
Rees, a slight ten year old perched on an old, wheezing pony, squinted to focus through the whorls of smoke. He was worried. He had to get to the King’s men’s camp urgently, as soon as humanly possible, but he was lost. He’d been sent back and forth relaying the messages often enough to know that taking the wrong path would lose him a lot more time. He was starting to cry in frustration when, in the brief moment of calm after a volley of canon fire, he heard a clanging of pans. He knew then that he was finally near the camp. He kicked and urged the pony into a canter.
‘Come on, old girl.’ he urged the pony, adding a thwack from the rein ends. On arrival at the camp he reported straightaway to Elizabeth. She was married to one of Prince Rupert’s foot soldiers and this tenuous link to royalty, plus the fact that she was both English and one of only a few married women among so many less obviously virtuous women, had given her some immediate status in the camp, at least during this time of war.
The message he relayed to Elizabeth was a fair, if shorter, version of what he’d been instructed to say. The King’s men were outnumbered, as he’d said in previous reports. But that scoundrel, Fairfax, was proving more wily than expected in the way he’d mustered and moved his men. With God on the side of his anointed King, victory would still be granted – of course – but the women must prepare for more wounded; many more wounded. It could all be over sooner rather than later so they must make ready immediately. She thanked the boy and hurried to tell her friends. On foot, now leading the pony, the boy went across the camp to find his mother, Agnes.
Agnes Owen was already busy tearing sheets into strips, adding the strips to a small mountain of other makeshift bandages on the cart next to her and keeping at the same time an anxious eye on an open kettle of simmering herbs. She still sensed his approach though. ‘Rees,’ she cried, running over to him, ‘what news?’
‘Sshh,’ he pulled her close, ‘come away a moment.’
‘I doubt anyone will hear us in this melee,’ she murmured – but drew back quickly with him anyway.
They were far enough away and Elizabeth was in any case talking to one of the other English women now but he switched to Welsh, just in case.
‘It’s bad, really bad. None will say it of course but it’s clear as can be. The King’s men are losing – and losing fast.’
‘Elizabeth’s lot?’ She meant the foot soldiers. Elizabeth’s husband was a lieutenant with one of the key companies engaged in this battle. Agnes ha
d formed a loose bond with Elizabeth and her husband – doing washing and the like for them – since Carter, Agnes’s man, had deserted.
‘Yes,’ he said, his voice hoarse but urgent, ‘but not just them, not just their company – the whole army, all of it. I mean it. I saw it with these eyes. They say it’s on account of the hills – the rebel army’s got the vantage. But it’s not just that. Them rebels, roundheads, parlies, whatever you want to call ’em. They’re no rabble. They’re…’ he paused, searching for the right term, ‘it’s like they’re not individual men. They just all know, somehow, when to turn, where to aim – they do it all together. They’re just unstoppable. And they’re ripping our side to pieces.’
‘But it’s the King’s army. The King, he has God – we have God – on our side. It’s unthinkable that we would lose the whole battle. You can’t be right.’
‘I wish I was wrong.’ he said – and with such finality that she knew it then.
‘How many dead?’ she asked.
‘Too many to count even if I had time. Hundreds. I saw hundreds.’
‘And the wounded?’
‘Not so many but grave, really grave injuries. I saw so much blood on the field.’
Agnes turned to her pile of linen sheets. Her hands shaking, she resumed tearing strips. Rees grabbed her arm.
‘The thing is… the thing is, our lot’s backing off.’
‘Retreating?’ she asked, her voice pitched high in alarm.
‘Sshh,’ he said, tightening his grip on her, ‘‘tis treason to say. But they’re coming this way, with the enemy close on them.’
In the silence that followed, Agnes turned to look over at Elizabeth and her group of English ladies. There was something furtive about their movements.
‘Look,’ said Agnes, ‘I think the English women are packing up.’
‘We should leave too,’ said Rees, ‘we must go – and now!’
‘What? No. You know I can’t. What about the orders? What about the wounded? Who’ll bandage them? Besides, Fairfax’s men won’t touch us women. He’s known for – how do they say it? – it’s “chivalry” in English. They might take English ladies as good hostages but who would bother with a camp follower? Especially when they’ll be wanting us to bandage their men too.’
Elizabeth and her maid were openly throwing valuables onto a cart now. Agnes looked at Rees again. ‘Take the pony, quick, before she commandeers it,’ she whispered, ‘Parliamentary soldiers won’t bother me – but you’re a boy, a boy who’ll make a man soon enough, God willing. You’re an enemy to them. You must go – go now.’
‘You’re sure?’ Rees asked, ‘Should I not stay with you?’
‘No. Get gone with you. Now!’ she said, throwing her arms round him before pushing him away. Rees climbed back onto the pony, kicking it into a canter. He passed out of her sight, beyond the clearing – just as Elizabeth called out for a pony.
Agnes tore at the sheets, faster than ever, until she had a great pile of bandages. She had just turned her attention to pounding the now–tender herbs when she first heard the awful howling, a noise far more animal than human.
6.
Essex, 1648
Wayland ripped open the door. In one lightning movement he leapt at the man, seized the musket from his hands and turned it on him.
‘I see you’ve not lost your fighting instincts, then.’ the man said calmly.
‘Alun! You old sod, I could have killed you,’ replied Wayland, dropping his raised arm, ‘what on God’s earth brings you here?’
Alun was Welsh. He was also a baker and he lived two villages away but he had some family connection with Wayland’s local bakers and occasionally helped them out. Only twenty–eight, he looked forty at best. Years of breathing in flour dust had taken its toll and given him a wheezing cough that came and went in bouts. He and Wayland had been well known to take a drink or two together in the local alehouse, years back, back in the days before the war started up.
‘I’ve heard you’ve been asking questions. Questions about a missing child?’ he said now. There was an urgent edge to his voice.
‘Bad news travels as fast as ever then,’ said Wayland, ‘but what do you know of it?’
‘Our Rees, my sister’s boy, has been missing these three years now,’ Alun answered, his eyes searching over Wayland’s face and finding an answer he didn’t like.
Wayland said nothing. He thought a moment. That feeling of almost recognition that he’d had when looking at the boy’s body. Could it have been Rees? ‘How old would Rees be now?’ he asked, stalling for time, dreading having to break the news.
‘Thirteen I suppose, or even a bit more. I’d have to ask the wife. She keeps more track of that sort of thing and as I say, we’ve not seen him in years now,’ said Alun.
‘So… so could he have been as young as nine or ten back then, perhaps?’ said Wayland, thinking back, ‘when last I might have seen him, didn’t he have blond curls and green eyes?’ He hoped Alun would say yes. That should rule out Rees from being the corpse.
‘Yes, blond when he was little. But his hair turned darker later. Brownish it went. Odd really but my wife says it’s often the way with blond boys, turning darker. His eyes’ll still be still green though.’
Wayland was silent, searching for words.
‘Come on man, out with it.’ said Alun.
‘A boy’s body been found –’ he said, ‘I doubt it could be him. If he’s been missing three years, what would he be doing back here? I thought… I remembered Rees as blond though.’
‘You thought? And now? You think…’
Wayland twisted his hands together, opened his mouth but shut it again.
‘Lord, no!’ Alun cried out. He slumped back into his seat. He struggled to compose himself but a deep sob wracked his chest and triggered a wheezing attack. Wayland laid the musket aside, leaned over and slapped Alun on the back until his wheezing ceased. Then he fetched a couple of jars and a jug of small beer. He filled one jar and passed it to Alun. Alun took it straightaway, drained it in one. Wayland poured another for Alun and one for himself. He sat down opposite Alun and began to tell how he’d found the body. He started with the rider–less horse and then the bloodied clothes. He stopped short as something occurred to him. ‘Wait a moment,’ he said, ‘let’s think this this through. If we don’t find out otherwise, if no parents come forward for that poor boy, Coroner will likely want your sister to examine the body,’ he said, then quickly added ‘if only to rule out …’
‘Well,’ said Alun, interrupting, ‘that’ll be hard.’
‘Why so?’ Wayland asked.
‘Well, our Rees didn’t go missing alone.’
‘No?’ asked Wayland, puzzled now.
‘No. My sister, she…’
Wayland nodded his encouragement.
‘She ran off.’
‘Ran off?’ But even as he asked, Wayland started to remember there’d been some scandal around Alun’s sister. Rebecca had been quite upset, hearing about it at the time. But of course the war – on English ground, between English forces, splitting families apart – had soon dominated all other news
‘With some foot–soldier. In the king’s army. Left David, her husband. Not that he was any loss. I never took to him. She took Rees with her, though.’
‘We’ve difficult times now,’ said Wayland, unsure really what else to say, ‘and in difficult times people will do strange things, unwise things more often than not.’
‘That’s true enough, for sure,’ said Alun, ‘well, anyhow, he – David – took off soon after as well. I’m not sure I wholly blame him. Folks around made it clear they were set against him, whispers said he must have been at fault. You know how ignorant folk can be.’
Wayland knew well enough. He’d felt the pain of such attitudes himself. Alun continued, ‘And, well, it bec
ame clear soon enough that she’d not be returning. He took it bad, though, about the boy, not knowing where he was…’ Alun stopped short, suddenly aware again that in the light of Wayland’s news, the boy’s whereabouts might now be known. He spluttered, shoulders heaving. Wayland patted Alun on the back. Then, realizing that this was another coughing fit provoked by sobbing, he thrust the beer at him again. Alun gulped some down.
‘The way I see it,’ Wayland said slowly, ‘if your sister ran off with a soldier from the King’s army, they – and therefore the boy – must surely have travelled with his regiment. All the King’s regiments have been moving a long way off. That must surely make it unlikely that your sister’s boy could be, ahem, involved in this current discovery.’ He thought it best not to mention Stane’s recent scare–mongering on the subject of troop movements.
Alun looked up. ‘Aye, I suppose you’re right.’
‘So, anyways,’ said Wayland after a pause, ‘as I say, one or the other parent needs to be found if no one else comes forward. Coroner will insist. Less you can claim relationship and confirm in public that the body is not his – or… or if it could be.’
Alun drew in a deep breath and wiped his face on his jerkin. ‘So, carry on. Tell me about finding the body. Tell it from the beginning. And tell it straight.’
Wayland was silent. How could he even begin to tell Alun everything if there was still a chance it was his sister’s lad?
‘Well,’ Alun said after a while, ‘you could start with what’s the connection then between the horse and the dead boy?’
‘Good question,’ said Wayland, ‘and I don’t know the answer. But I suspect it’s a coincidence.’
‘No,’ said Alun, after a moment’s reflection, ‘it doesn’t seem likely, does it, even in these strange times?’