by Lesley Lodge
‘These are difficult times, I’ll agree. The war has left many folk on the move. But must we suspect all of them to be wrong–doers?’
Stane didn’t answer immediately but it was clear that he was about to. Wayland decided he didn’t care what weasel words Stane would come out with. So he spoke again to forestall him. ‘So now, how come you let this one get away?’
‘We didn’t. There was no signing from the magistrate for this one in the first place. From what I hear tell, it was the townsfolk, they caught him, they held him – and then they turned to us when he got away.’
Wayland tried, he really tried, not to say what came straight into his mind. But he failed.
‘So it was a man then, not some poor woman this time?’ Wayland struggled to keep his voice steady while inwardly he fought an urge to hit Stane. If Stane did realise that Wayland’s cryptic remark was only just holding back a dammed–up, huge reservoir of Wayland’s emotions he gave no sign of it.
‘Happen there’s all sorts of miscreants and witches. Still, no matter, they all end the same. The rope gets ‘em if the water don’t.’
‘And proof?’ Wayland asked sharply.
‘We always get a full confession.’ Stane smirked, ‘Two or three sometimes.’
Wayland knew full well that Stane had powerful connections. So he understood the risks and likely consequences of upsetting him, but he went straight up to Stane regardless. He thrust him out and slammed the door.
Wayland stood a long time in thought. ‘Fugitive,’ he muttered to himself, ‘townsfolk.’ Finally, he opened the door to the horse stalls. The runaway horse was standing there, calm and untied. He checked the other stalls, then the living area. He went into the old pig stall. He looked outside. Nowhere was there any sign of his visitor – and nowhere was there any indication whatsoever as to which way he’d gone.
‘I guess he heard all that,’ Wayland said quietly, to himself, ‘well, one less problem for me to worry about.’ He turned to the horse. ‘And maybe one less problem for you too, my boy,’ he said to it, stroking its neck just underneath the long wavy black mane.
13.
That day passed with no further sign of Erasmus. Stane looked in briefly again but soon left, without a word, apparently satisfied no fugitives were being harboured there. Wayland woke early next morning and checked round once more for Erasmus. As he suspected, there was no sign of him. The horse was still there. He woke the boy and told him they were going to Witham.
‘We may be away a couple of nights or more,’ he said, ‘so bring what you need, but not too much, mind.’
Wayland packed his own essentials in an old leather sack that doubled as a saddlebag. As always, he also loaded a basic kit of tools from the smithy. It was not that he was minded to follow Alun’s admonition to take a weapon. Taking the tools of his trade simply made sense to him. There was always the risk that one or other of their horses might cast a shoe and there was also the possibility of earning something along the way if a stranger’s horse needed a few nails or his cart required fixing. He remembered Stane’s earlier words about the King’s men being on the move and he thought too about the likelihood of more general trouble. He found one of Rebecca’s old herb lists and wrote down on the back of it a brief testament to his ownership of each of the blacksmith’s tools that he’d packed. As an afterthought, he added to the list a description of the two horses – their colouring and brand marks. Both horses had unusual brand marks, though not, it was true, the same brand and the runaway’s brand was barely discernible. With only a slight qualm about claiming the runaway horse as his, he signed his claim to ownership with the number and the rank he’d had when serving in Parliamentary army those three long years previously. He stuffed the list into the pouch on his mare’s saddle, beneath a dirty cloth.
Next Wayland cast his expert eye over the runaway horse and ran his hand down each of its legs. The horse seemed fully recovered now, with no lingering signs of fever. Usually, if he had to take Jonathan anywhere with him his son rode pillion, but this was becoming less comfortable for both of them as the boy grew. Besides, he reasoned to himself, he could hardly leave the runaway horse to fend for itself indoors. True, he’d be risking the villagers’ ire if they found out he’d taken the horse but, after all, he’d be bringing it back. He found an old bridle that fitted. He had no spare saddle so instead he threw a sheepskin pad on to its back and fastened it under the belly with a leather strap. He led both horses outside.
Jonathan ran straight up to his mount and stroked its head softly, down towards the whiskery hairs and dark pinkish skin of its nose. The horse snickered and Jonathan smiled his thanks to Wayland. It seemed to Wayland that in that moment his son looked so very different, his whole face taking part in the smile. He tried to remember when Jonathan had last smiled – but he couldn’t. When that realisation hit him he was shocked: it must have been some long time before. Before Rebecca died.
When they turned into Alun’s road, they found him already packed up and mounted, ready and waiting. ‘Did you remember? Did you bring…’ Alun began, but he stopped short, seeing Jonathan, ‘I mean, did you bring everything?’
Wayland said nothing, but he nodded in a general way. The three of them rode on together. Reaching Witham on their second day, they found it to be a quiet town with no sign of Carter or soldiers of either side. Alun suggested they enquire of the local baker and so they did, stocking up first on some bread patties. The baker directed them on towards Brantry. He said he’d heard of forces passing that way, though he was cautious in describing them. The little party set off again. They were perhaps some four miles out from Brantry when they passed eight or nine men walking briskly. Alun greeted them with a cheerful ‘Good–day!’ but not one of them returned his greeting. He turned to Wayland. ‘Cousins of yours?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Wayland, surprised at the question.
‘Only they’re almost as talkative as you…’ Alun said solemnly.
Alun thought he saw a hint of a smile cross Jonathan’s face but Wayland scowled and said nothing. Alun kicked his horse on until he was parallel with Jonathan.
‘Hey, you’re not exactly a fine conversationalist either, are you?’ he said. A pink flush rippled over Jonathan’s face and he looked away to fiddle with the sheepskin pad.
The passing men were soon followed by more men, then by a couple of family groups. At first Alun continued to give his cheery “Good–day!” but not one of them gave him any answer back. ‘Odd.’ said Alun, to no one in particular.
They heard the excited chatter of the next group before they saw them. About twenty young men swaggered by, laughing and play–fighting. ‘Good–day young sirs,’ Alun began again.
A couple of them turned their heads to look behind them.
‘Fool,’ said a third to the first two, ‘he’s talking to us.’
‘Could you tell us, please,’ continued Alun, ‘where everyone’s off to and why so gravely?’
The youths paused, looking to one another for support. ‘We may as well, if we speak carefully.’ This was from the third youth again. He seemed to be their unspoken choice for leader. He turned to Alun. ‘There’s a, ah, commotion in the town. The King’s force has arrived…’ He left the sentence hanging in the air.
‘In some haste, you might say,’ added one of the others.
‘Which force would that be?’ Wayland asked.
‘It’s not so easy to tell for sure, as it happens, with the chaos there is and so on, but Sir Charles Lucas is there, and most men seem to answer to him. Our town is mostly for Parliament, so we thought it – as you might say – a good choice to leave for a while.’
Wayland nodded, Alun thanked them and they passed by. ‘The magistrate did tell me the King’s men were coming,’ Wayland said, once they were out of earshot, ‘but I took no notice at the time. Maybe we should turn back.’
&nb
sp; ‘Turn back?’ said Alun, ‘And miss out on finding Carter? Rather, I think, we should crack on, find him before Lucas’s men find him.’
‘Why should it matter if they find him? He’s one of them, is he not?’
‘Think on it man,’ Alun said, ‘if Carter’s alone – as I heard he was – why would you think he is?’
‘Ah, I see. You think he deserted.’
‘Yes. Either this last week or so in Kent. Or maybe sometime before. Maybe after some other defeat for his side. I don’t actually care what his story is except that I want to know where my sister is and what her story is.’
Wayland said nothing.
‘Look,’ said Alun, ‘I know it can’t be the same as how you feel about Rebecca. Agnes is my sister not my wife. She’s likely brought about her own ruin. But we’ve heard nothing. She may be all right. Or she may be dead. And more than all that, there is the matter of the boy. You of all people should know well how all that feels – it’s the not knowing. Such not knowing has eaten away at you this whole year past. This thing is starting to eat away at me. Point is, we need to get to Carter before Lucas does.’
Wayland kicked his horse on ahead and the three of them carried on into the next town. The first stalls they passed were deserted but boarded up. Further into the centre, though, there they did find, as the young men had said, a great commotion. They saw some of the King’s men, all disheveled, some partially in uniform, some stripped down to breeches and tunic, all of them beating with weapons or even fists on doors or hauling away food and drink. Wayland stopped only to drape their cloaks over their bulging saddlebags. ‘If we’re asked,’ he hissed to Jonathan, ‘if anyone questions you, we’re on a mission, sent by Prince Rupert.’
‘But a mission for what?’ Alun asked, ‘And anyway, he’s not likely to say anything to anyone, is he – if he doesn’t speak?’
Wayland glared at him. ‘Arms,’ he said, ‘repairing weapons; we’ve smithy duties to carry out.’
‘I look like a smith?’ Alun asked, ‘I mean, do I?’ With his frail frame hunched over the saddle, he had a point. But they rode on. They passed several groups of soldiers without challenge. Wayland spotted an alehouse. ‘Carter likes a drink, you say?’ he asked Alun.
‘Carter likes drink a lot,’ Alun replied, ‘or certainly did when I knew him. Drinkers seldom change.’
They roped the horses to the posts provided across from the alehouse, choosing the shady end, not for its protection from any sun – yet again there was none – but because it afforded some cover from any rain and from any curious eyes. There had not been one day without rain in eight weeks and they certainly did not wish for questions from nosy locals. Wayland pushed open the heavy inn door. Immediately the acrid smell of sweat and beer hit them. Wayland walked straight to the serving hatch with a firm tread and without turning his head. His eyes, though, quickly took in the scene inside. There seemed to be two groups in the room. The first set of men appeared relatively sober. They were seated around a couple of tables, speaking in low tones. Further away there were men propping each other up or loosely clutching at the supporting posts. Several had passed out altogether, slumped across the tables or lying on the floor amid a mess of wilted straw and herbs, pools of spilt beer and upturned tankards. The landlady, her face red–veined and sweating, trotted out an automatic “good day” to Wayland and looked about to enquire into the origins and destinations of the three new arrivals. Before she could ask, though, Wayland spoke. ‘A good day to you also, madam. Two tankards please of your finer beer.’
Something tugged at Wayland’s jacket from behind. He jerked round and seized hold of something. It was a hand.
14.
Naseby. 1645, 14 June, Afternoon
The howling became louder, nearer. Agnes could make out individual screams now. For a moment she felt paralysed, rooted on to the earth, her hands still holding the strips of cloth. Then she dropped the cloth and she ran, holding her skirts up out of the mud. Other women soon overtook her; their urgency spurred her on. Tree branches whipped at her face and caught at her skirts. Neither she nor any of the other women wasted any breath screaming now. All that Agnes could hear was the sound of her own lungs heaving and that of her heart drumming. She lost a shoe, sucked into the wet clay. Its loss made her lop–sided, unbalanced. She kicked off the other one and ran on. She began to hear hideous noises – thudding and groaning – behind her now and she realised with horror that the faster women were out of sight, ahead somewhere. Or were they behind? She risked a glance behind and glimpsed a melee of what looked like clothes on the ground – dirty, moving clothes. She saw men in red and grey – soldiers of the other army, the King’s enemies – jabbing at the clothes with pikes and swords. She knew in an instant then that the jumble of clothes must actually be a group of women, the King’s army camp followers, women like herself. She could hear them now, screaming in Welsh and in English.
Agnes thought quickly. She knew that just ahead must be the road that led eventually to Leicester. There would be no hiding place on such an open road. So she ducked sideways and thrust her body through the hedge. Hawthorn scratched her face and ripped at her chest but she barely noticed. She stumbled over the lumpy earth, searching, praying for a hiding place. She heard a loud grunting and cursing – and then the rasping sound of a hedge being forced as a soldier burst through. She thought quickly and turned to face her pursuer. ‘Stop!’ she shouted, ‘Are these your orders? Does your general order this?’
‘Irish!’ the soldier said, ‘I knew it.’
Agnes was puzzled for an instant until she realised that in her panic she must have spoken in Welsh. ‘No!’ she said firmly in English, ‘We are not Irish. I am not Irish.’
The man hesitated. He made as if to lower his sword, but a second man crashed through the hedge, quickly followed by three more. ‘Hey, John,’ he said to the tallest man, ‘this one says she’s not Irish.’
‘I am not Irish.’ Agnes repeated, loudly and clearly.
‘Well, if she’s not part of that murdering tribe, then what is she?’ the man called John asked, moving closer to stare at her. A short, older man, his face disfigured by a leering scowl, pushed his way to the front. ‘I’ll tell you what she is. She’s a whore just like the rest of them.’ he said. Agnes saw that he was holding a small dagger.
He darted forward and grabbed her hair. All of Agnes’s senses seemed heightened. In the few seconds it took she could smell his vile breath, see the thick spittle moving around his mouth and feel his fingers hooking through her hair, his nails tearing her scalp. He stared direct into her eyes. ‘Beg,’ he said, ‘beg me for mercy.’
Agnes begged. In short, repetitive gasps she begged. He forced her onto her knees and laughed. ‘Nehemiah,’ she heard one of the other men say but it seemed to her that he must be far away, too far away, ‘Nehemiah…’
Agnes felt a jolt of pain and then the hot blood running down her face as the dagger slashed up through her nose. ‘That’s how we mark whores. So all men will know them and their dirty ways. But it’s not enough, not with these whores.’ he hissed.
Even as she felt so much fear, knowing he meant to kill her, Agnes felt time slow down. She seemed to notice every detail. She noticed that part of his ear was missing. She saw his breeches rising with an erection. There was screaming all around now and two women partly stripped naked, their bodies cut by the spiky hedge, surged through the hedge. Agnes saw their faces, too, were bloodied and one was bleeding around her neck. Soldiers followed, more and more of them. They were all shouting but the words were incomprehensible to her now. The first woman tripped and immediately a group of men swarmed over her. An arm held up a lump of flesh.
Agnes’s mind was working fast. It recognised the men’s bloodlust for what it was. It knew about the deadly momentum of a frenzied mob. But search as it might it found no way out for her. Her attacker twisted her face around,
lowered his dagger from her face and slashed it into her chest and downwards.
15.
A village outside of Brantry, 1648
Jonathan ducked away from his father’s fist just in time and pulled back, looking at Wayland in surprise.
Wayland adjusted his stance quickly, converting his aggressive thrust into some kind of clumsy head pat. ‘Ah, and, ah, one tankard of small beer.’ he said to the landlady. She nodded and poured their drinks without a word, being careful, now that she’d noted the speed of Wayland’s reaction, to fill them to the top. Wayland led them to the one unoccupied table and they sat a while, drinking their beers. ‘See him here?’ Wayland asked of Alun.
‘No, but…’ said Alun.
‘But what?’
‘Well, there’s no–one in uniform that looks like him, that’s clear,’ said Alun, ‘but I suppose… I mean, it’s possible, he might have discarded the uniform.’
‘Aye, for sure – if he’s deserted.’ said Wayland.
A small, scrawny man on the next table looked round at them as if straining to hear them. ‘Sshh,’ Alun hissed, ‘do you want one of them looking for him, to seize him and collect the reward for a deserter? Finding him and handing him over, gone before we get to ask him questions?’ Then, more loudly, he said ‘Yes, I’ll have another – if you’re still paying.’
Wayland, his face blank at first, caught on at last. ‘Paying?’ he said, just as loudly, ‘As I recall ’tis your turn, fair and square.’ The scrawny man went back to his original conversation with his companions. ‘Here,’ Wayland said to Jonathan, ‘take this money and buy us some food.’
Jonathan didn’t move. His face looked a silent question.
‘Nothing fancy. Bread of course. Maybe some barley broth if she does it.’
The boy still stood there. ‘Ah. Yes. Well, just point and nod then.’ Wayland said.