by Lesley Lodge
‘And smile,’ added Alun, ‘smile as you point. It helps.’
As soon as Jonathan set off to find the serving girl in the kitchen, Wayland grabbed Alun by the elbow and led him to the far end of the room. He pulled up the first drunk’s head by the hair, turning the man’s face towards Alun.
‘Hey, Smithy, what the…’ asked Alun.
‘This one,’ Wayland interrupted, ‘is this him?’
‘No,’ Alun said firmly, ‘it’s not – and I don’t think...’
Wayland laid the head back down, none too gently. Alun watched the man’s eyes drift shut again. Emboldened, he followed Wayland to the next prone form and the next and the one after. None of them was Carter. As they moved back towards Jonathan and their seat, though, Alun spotted another body, crumpled up in the far corner of the room, behind a large sleeping dog. This man’s mouth was open, distorting his face, but Alun felt a flicker of recognition. This time he was the one to pull the man’s head up.
‘Wayland,’ he called, ‘I think this one’s him.’
Wayland strode over. ‘You’re sure?’ he asked.
‘Not really,’ said Alun, ‘not sure. But I do think it.’
Wayland pulled this man up by his sleeves. Alun nodded to Wayland and went round to stand the other side of him and between them they hoisted him up and took him over to their table. Alun staggered under the weight but Wayland bore his share easily. They propped him up on their bench and made a show of sitting with him to finish their ale. ‘Here, old boy,’ Alun said loud enough for the other drinkers to hear, ‘I think you’ve had enough, that’s for sure. We’ll get you away, you can come back with us now.’
They pulled the man up again and set off towards the door. One or two of the other customers glanced up as they made their way slowly out but not one made a move to stop or question them. Jonathan ran out after them, clutching some lumps of bread and they soon reached the horses. Round a corner, away from the horse stand, was a stone trough. Wayland perched their load on the edge of its nearside wall. He used the leather bucket that was chained to the trough to scoop up some of the greenish water from the trough and poured it over Carter’s head. He waited while the man choked, spluttered and shook the water off.
‘Your name is Carter?’ said Wayland.
‘Aye. What’s it to you?’ Carter turned his head towards them, attempting to focus on his captors. ‘Who are you?’ he said and then, ‘Alun? Is it you man? What in God’s name are you doing here?’
‘Never mind that,’ said Alun, ‘where’s Agnes?’
‘Agnes? Oh.’
‘Yes, Agnes. My sister in case you’ve forgotten. I am presuming she’s your wife now.’ There was a sharp edge to Alun’s voice. Carter said nothing but looked down at the ground.
‘Well?’ said Wayland.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Carter began but his voice seemed to fail.
‘Sorry? Sorry for what exactly?’ Alun shook him. Wayland stepped forward and slapped the man’s face.
‘You’ll be sorrier if you don’t tell us,’ he said.
‘It was after Naseby,’ Carter croaked, ‘you did hear about Naseby?’
‘The battle there, yes,’ replied Wayland, ‘when the army thrashed your lot and, from what I heard, your side just upped and ran away.”
‘Ran away? Did you?’ asked Alun, ‘And left Agnes behind?’
‘No. It wasn’t like that. I, we… we had no choice. The army, I’ve never seen anything like it. So… disciplined. Out–flanked us on every side. Ruthless.’ He drooped down again. Alun pulled him up by the chin.
‘So you deserted?’
‘Don’t call it that. I took my chance, that’s all. It was that or get… get cut to ribbons.’ Carter was talking faster now. ‘They say the King lost more than five hundred officers that day. They count the officers, you know, but they don’t count the men. I saw with my own eyes there were many more men, shot, slashed, hacked. Me, well, to speak plainly, I joined for the money, for the regular money. Not, well not especially, for the King.’ Carter looked round, shaking, as he spoke.
‘No–one else is listening,’ said Alun, ‘so you can carry on.’
‘Agnes, well, she was with the women, of course, in the camp behind. So then… then you know.’
‘So then we know? So then we know what?’
‘So… so I have to suppose she was likely killed. With the others.’
Wayland, remembering Mary’s account, had begun to suspect this news but Alun was clearly shocked. Alun sat down suddenly, one hand on his chest. ‘Killed?’ he said, ‘Who by? Who killed her?’
‘It was a massacre, from what I heard after.’ Carter took a deep breath. Then he told them some of what he’d heard about the massacre of camp followers after the battle’s end in Naseby three years back. His account pretty much matched Mary’s. Like her, he mentioned the mutilations though not in detail. He stopped short abruptly, remembering his audience.
16.
Alun sat on the trough, his face drained of what little colour it had before. ‘You’re sure?’ He asked the question but there was no hope in his voice.
Carter looked up at him, calculating now. ‘How can I know for sure? But…’
‘But what?’
‘But, I heard it from four different sources.’ Carter replied.
Wayland looked up. ‘Listen.’ he said. They all heard it then. A military drumming, weak and irregular but drawing closer.
‘Help me,’ said Carter, ‘they mustn’t find me. I’m done for if they find me.’
‘If you think we care one copper farthing for your dirty little neck then you are much mistaken,’ Wayland said as he pulled Alun up by his sleeves and shook him. ‘Come on, we need to get away from here.’
Leaving the horses by the trough, they moved over to an alley opposite the inn. With some new-found lease of energy, Carter followed. The four of them stood in the shadows, watching as first the infantrymen and then the horse soldiers came into view. The lone drummer was the only real sign that this ragged collection of men was actually still part of an army. Their uniforms were torn and dirtied. Some had no uniform at all. Their pace was a walk rather than a march, despite the best efforts of the drummer. The horses that followed the infantry looked exhausted too, their heads drooping down. Their riders dismounted and walked the horses to the trough. Even the sight of water failed to liven these horses although they did drink. Wayland looked over in the direction of their own horses and was relieved to see that they were just out of sight under the shelter of the trees. He prayed fervently that they were also tired – too tired to whinny when they heard the King’s horses.
The soldiers at the front of the line halted outside the inn. Wayland heard the inn doors being bolted against them but he doubted this would hold them for long and so it proved. The soldiers numbered about eighty now, milling around the inn. Several of them thumped on the doors with pike handles. ‘Open, in the name of the King.’ bellowed one.
There was the sound of bolts being drawn and the woman who’d served Wayland emerged, pulling the door to behind her. She wiped her hands on her skirts, taking her time. Then she struck a defiant pose, arms crossed. ‘If you can pay, I will serve you. But my rooms are not large. Seat only some of your men in here and pray you settle the rest out through the back.’
She pointed to the rear of the inn. Wayland thought it was a brave try but he very much doubted she’d see the full tally paid. He watched with relief until the last man had entered the inn. ‘Now quick,’ he said, ‘now’s our chance.’
‘What about me?’ asked Carter.
‘You?’ Wayland asked, ‘Why should we care about you? You were one of them – we’re the enemy.’
‘And how much did you care about Agnes? Like you, we’re just going to look out for us.’ Alun added.
‘Have you no horse?’ Wayla
nd asked. Even at such a time it was second nature to him to think about horses.
‘What? No. I’m not one of them now – and so… and so I’ve no horse,’ Carter said.
‘Leave him, Wayland.’ Alun said.
‘Wait,’ Carter said, ‘Your name is Wayland?’
‘What of it?’ Wayland said, turning to go.
‘You were away last year. And that’s your boy?’
Wayland stopped short. ‘What do you know of me?’
‘Of you? Nothing more. But your wife? Maybe I know something about her you’d likely want to know.’
Wayland reached out, grabbing Carter by the throat. ‘What?’ he said, ‘Have you…’
Shouts from the King’s soldiers interrupted him.
‘We must go now, right now. Take him if you must, I’m off,’ said Alun and he crouched down, ready to sprint across to the horses. Jonathan was already running. Wayland seized hold of Carter’s sleeve, pulled him close and set off, dragging him along. They reached the horses without hindrance. Alun and Jonathan untied theirs and mounted. Wayland grabbed Jonathan’s reins. ‘Sorry, lad,’ he said, ‘but you’re easily the lightest. You’ll have to have him.’ He hoisted Carter up onto Jonathan’s horse to sit behind the boy. He turned to his own horse – only to find she was being held by a King’s man.
‘Going somewhere?’ asked the soldier. Two more men in Royalist uniforms quickly joined him.
‘What have we here?’ asked one, ‘I think Sir Charles will want to know about these suspicious persons, don’t you?’
17.
Sir Charles Lucas, it soon turned out, was ensconced in a small clearing just a short way along the road. His men had set up a makeshift table with seating just for him. From the victuals and wine set out it was clear that neither he nor the small entourage of officers on a nearby table had need of any inn. Lucas was not particularly tall but even seated he had a presence. His long, dark brown hair hung down onto his shoulders, teased into curls in the Royalist fashion and in stark contrast to the matted hair of his infantrymen. His moustache, too, was neat and cared for though it did little to disguise the thinness of his lips.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘who have we here?’
Wayland took his cap off and stepped forward. ‘Wayland, sir.’ he said, ‘Blacksmith. Smithing for the horses, that’s my trade. This here’s my cousin, Alun Jones. The lad is my son Jonathan who helps me, holds the horses and the like.’
Wayland had been careful in his little speech not to name his village and to emphasise the horse aspect of his trade – and not to mention weapon–making. He prayed his luck would hold.
‘You are not a soldier then? You have not been fighting against God and the King?’ Lucas asked, patting his moustache with a white lace cloth.
‘No, sir, God preserve his Majesty. I am a simple smith.’ Wayland pulled up his sleeves, revealing a number of scars from furnace burns.
Lucas appeared to consider. He picked up a chicken leg from the small table behind him and held it delicately between two fingers, toying with it. He stared straight at Wayland. He seemed inclined to interrogate him further but just then one of his officers saw his own chance to seize the initiative and perhaps impress Lucas.
‘This one, this Jones,’ said the officer, ‘what does he do?’
‘Like the smith said,’ said Alun, ‘I help with the horses. And, erm, the furnace.’
‘Just that?’ asked the soldier, sensing Alun’s unease, ‘I doubt there’s much to be earned in that.’
‘And… and at times I am a baker. When there’s need enough,’ he coughed hard, spitting out a mess of floury phlegm.
‘And this other one?’ Lucas, bored now with Alun, pointed to Carter.
‘Nowt to do with us.’ Alun said quickly.
‘Labourer, sir,’ said Carter, ‘looking for work, sir.’
‘His hands don’t look like they’ve seen too much work.’ one of Lucas’s other officers offered.
‘Like I said,’ said Carter, ‘I am looking for work. I lost my place during the first war. It’s hard to make a living in these times.’
‘These times,’ Lucas said, glowering at Wayland, ‘these times would not be so hard were it not for Cromwell’s rabble, overturning the natural order of things.’
Jonathan looked at Wayland. Wayland felt his son’s gaze but held his own eyes steady on Lucas.
‘No, sir,’ he replied calmly, ‘that they would not.’
‘Well,’ said Lucas, absently stroking chicken grease through his moustache, ‘I don’t suppose now is the time for such philosophising. A smith you say? Well, we have horses. And of course, as it seems obvious to me that if you can fashion shoes from molten iron to any fit I’ve no doubt that you can make pike points, you can fix muskets and you can do a host of like things we are needing. We have a fair number of weapons that need repairing and I dare say we’ll have more before this war’s finished. Consider yourself volunteered. We’re headed for Colchester.’
‘But sir, I implore you, we were going to… I mean, what about my boy…’
But Lucas had turned back to his meal.
18.
Lucas waved a departing hand over towards his left, apparently indicating that one of his officers should deal with the details. Wayland went up to this man but before he could say his piece the man spoke to him.
‘The baker’s to come whether he will or no. The boy can follow or not follow. That’s the choice. But this other one… what’s his name?’
Carter stepped forward. ‘Wright, sir.’ he said just at the very same moment that Wayland said ‘Carter.’
‘Wright or Carter?’ said the officer, scowling, ‘Which is it?’
One of his fellow officers went up to Carter, pulled his head up and scrutinised his face. ‘I know this one,’ he said, ‘he was with us at Naseby. At least, he was there at the start. And then he wasn’t.’ The man spat onto the mud.
‘Well then,’ said the first one, ‘that puts a different light on things. I’ve no time for a deserter either. And I doubt that Sir Charles Lucas will want him back. He will, though, want to look into this, see if any, ah, justice needs to be, ah, executed.’ The soldier smiled at his own joke, but Lucas was now some way off. There was silence for a moment. Carter stared round, looking for an escape route and failing to find one.
‘I suppose,’ said the officer, ‘we will just have to ask Sir Charles later, when we have the chance. So, this man, Carter or Wright, cowardly turd or plain soldier, he comes with us, whether he will or no.’ He waved in Carter’s direction and a couple of men ran forward, seized hold of Carter and set to tying him up.
A great shouting and drumming proclaimed the end of the soldiers’ rest break and men began assembling, ready to march on. Wayland hurried to prepare the horses. ‘This screws up everything,’ Alun said, ‘how are we to find out anything more? Not to mention what about our homes, my bakery – my wife? And your smithy?’
‘Well, I do consider it beats being strung up,’ Wayland said, his face set grim, ‘a little more interrogating and they could have taken us for accomplices, giving succour to a deserter.’
‘That bastard has been nothing but trouble since I set eyes on him. If not for him, Agnes would still be alive. And how about what he said about knowing something of your wife?’ Alun swivelled round, checking with a glance where Jonathan was and finding him out of earshot before he continued, ‘And your boy? What do you think he means?’
‘Hush. No time to think like that. We’ll bide our time. Things are out of our hands now.’
‘Aye’, Alun said. ‘and that’ll only end when this lot wins – or loses outright. We’ve had some six years of it so far, they lose, they win, we win, we lose and so it goes.’
‘Well,’ Wayland lowered his voice further, ‘let’s see when we arrive in the next town. Maybe we can get to Cart
er, ask him such questions and then slip away.’
‘And preferably all without being charged for desertion,’ said Alun, glancing round at the soldiers around them.
Wayland thought a while. ‘You’re the great one for chatting,’ he said, ‘go find out where exactly we are headed.’
Alun kicked his horse off into a trot. He passed Carter, tied up now and slung onto a supplies wagon, without so much as turning to peer at him. He hesitated, though, before approaching any of the foot soldiers, doubting that any of them would trust him, a man on horseback. He noticed then that one of the horse–soldiers had a horse with a slight limp. ‘Hey, friend,’ he called, ‘has your horse lost a shoe?’
‘And what if he has? What’s that to you?’ the man replied.
‘See that man I’m with, him over there?’ said Alun, pointing, ‘He could fix that. He’s a blacksmith.’
‘That may be, but I doubt he’s got a furnace and spare shoes with him and an hour to spend, now, has he?’ the man said. But he looked hopeful despite his cynical reply.
‘No, that he’s not,’ said Alun, ‘but he could remove the matching one in short time and then your horse – and you – would be balanced that much better. It might even save your backside a sore old time.’
The man laughed – Alun’s point had hit home and he was interested now. He urged his horse over towards Alun and they both steered their mounts towards Wayland. ‘Tell me, friend,’ Alun continued, ‘where are we headed?’
* * *
‘Colchester!’ Wayland thumped the damp earth where they lay later in that night’s camp, further away from the fire than they would have liked, ‘Colchester’s near the sea.’
‘They say,’ continued Alun, ‘that Sir Charles has his home in Colchester and they hope to raise more troops there.’
‘Odd,’ said Wayland, ‘from what I’ve heard, Colchester town itself is for Parliament.’
‘Home is still home,’ Alun pointed out, ‘and it wouldn’t be the first town divided by these wars. Also, maybe they’re expecting help to come in up the river from over the sea. They do say the King has foreign allies.’