by Lesley Lodge
He continued to work the furnace, outwardly calm and steady. At first he mostly fixed shoeing problems for Lucas’ men’s horses but as he worked, the pile of ironware – generally weapons requiring small but fiddly repairs – grew and grew. He felt an increasing anxiety that Lucas would send one of his key men chasing after these, but he was still loath to assist the king’s men with weapons. After all, they would be aimed at the Parliamentary side, the side on which he himself had fought, albeit with no option. Much as he considered that he had nothing but contempt for the rhetoric of both sides he found his underlying sympathies remained with the Parliamentary army. He was worried, too, about how he and the boy could get away unscathed. Jonathan was not reacting well to their confinement. He seemed, if it were possible, even more withdrawn than before. Wayland gave him as much work with horses as he could. He soon persuaded a couple of the king’s horsemen to let the boy help out with their horses. Jonathan had been disappointed at first that the kind of horse favoured by the king’s army was not, as he had imagined, the mighty destrier of a medieval knight. Wayland explained to him that since modern war involved the use of canons it necessarily required a more nimble mount. Still, these horses were far superior to the farm horses the boy had generally worked with before. Their faces had the attractive dished nose that hints at some small element of Arab ancestry. Jonathan found too that the soldiers’ horses, when properly fed, were a great deal livelier than the horses he was used to, but he soon adapted his ways with them and they seem to respond well to his gentle, if silent, approach.
Wayland’s drive to catch the killer remained. Fear got in its way. Worry about Jonathan got in its way. His heavy workload and the constant need to find, prepare and share food with Alun and Jonathan got in its way. But the desire to track down the killer was a given constant behind all his thoughts and all his actions – even if he was never really sure if he was seeking out the boy’s killer, his wife’s killer or both. With no other clues, his fevered mind always came back to Carter. The man must know something. Finding out what the something was might be a start, a thread to pull to begin a bigger unravelling. He looked constantly for ways to get out, to find out about him and to get close enough to the man. Perhaps, he thought, Alun, being less closely guarded, was more likely to be able to seize an opportunity to reach Carter and to interrogate him. Alun had motive enough too to do it and Wayland was confident that he’d be dogged enough to keep at it. He fretted though that Alun on his own wouldn’t be sufficient – now that Carter’s fortunes seemed to have been so far reversed. So, in the end he concluded that they’d both need to get to Carter some time when the man was not accompanied by fellow soldiers. If the Parliamentary army broke the siege and managed to capture the town, all would be chaos and the chances were that Carter would be taken and therefore out of Wayland’s reach. Conversely, if the King’s supporters arrived, defeated the Parliamentary army and succeeded in relieving the King’s men, the chances were that Carter would leave in triumph. In either case, getting to Carter would be out of Wayland’s control in the longer term. But in the shorter term there was no obvious way to get to him either. Wayland, however, was prepared to risk everything. As he’d told Alun, revenge drove him like a thirst.
20.
Leicester, June 1645
About twenty Parliamentary infantrymen were drinking heavily in the alehouse. Nehemiah, one of them and yet as always alone, cradled his ale and strained to listen to them. His hand went instinctively to his left ear, briefly touched the jagged edge where part of the ear was missing. The talk was all about Irish atrocities and snatches of their talk rose above the general loud buzz:
‘For a start, the Irish are heretics…’
‘Traitors too. ‘Tis well known that they support the …’
‘Just a few years back, it was, when them murdering bastards killed thousands...’
‘tens of thousands I heard…’
‘of English Protestants…
‘aye, they’re all at it, women and wee children too…’
Nehemiah, taking a sip, reflected on how their talk had changed since the immediate aftermath of the massacre at Naseby. Standing on bodies, their faces running with sweat and blood spatter, it had all been about triumph and boasting then.
‘Did you see that whore? I marked her good and proper…’
‘Well, she’ll not be whoring again in this life…’
‘True. Still her face will tell St Peter now to send her to the fires…’
‘I reckon I got three of them…’
‘I got five…’
Nehemiah hadn’t joined in their jubilation of blood lust then and, he thought to himself, he certainly wasn’t about to join in their noisy need for justifications now. He felt so very different from them. He had no need to summon up reasons for what he’d done. What he liked to do was to revisit in his thoughts, in calm times, the moments, the actual acts of what he’d done. Only his own acts. Not so for the rest of them. Where they had slashed wildly, looked to the next one and moved on, he’d taken it slowly. Enjoyed – yes, relished it all. Watching that one’s eyes when he slit into her face. Seeing the change in another one’s eyes when the knife finally left her breasts to slide slowly through that soft belly. Feeling the hot breath of her gasps and looking into her wide–awake stare when he twisted the blade. It was always at that last moment when their faces would merge into the face of that first woman, the one he’d failed to kill, the one who ripped at his ear and fled.
Nehemiah shifted on his stool, to hide better the movement in his breeches. Fast as his fellow soldiers were justifying their own actions and distancing themselves from the carnage, he was savouring his memories – and wondering: when would he find such moments again?
21.
Colchester, 1648
An opportunity – or more accurately, some slight chance of an opportunity – to find out more about Carter and his change of fortune did arise the following Monday. Lucas had called for all able–bodied men under his command – three were excused by reason of the leg injuries they had received in that first battle – to assemble in front of the castle. ‘In case you hadn’t worked it out, that includes us. And for that reason of necessity it includes you two as well.’ one of Wayland’s guards instructed him with some relish.
Two officers on horseback rode around the square, picking out men. One of those officers was Carter himself. He looked over the men grouped around him. His gaze skipped quickly over Wayland and Alun, but he pointed at them nevertheless and signalled for them to join his little party. ‘What’s up?’ Wayland asked of the man next to him as they all set off in the direction of the river, the one town boundary that wasn’t yet blocked to the besieged by Fairfax’s siege men.
‘Seems we’re off to the Hythe, to search for and fetch in supplies.’ was the reply.
‘Supplies of what?’ Alun asked, ‘Nothing too heavy, I hope.’ A coughing fit overtook him just at the thought of lifting stuff.
‘What’s up with him?’ one man asked Wayland.
‘I’m coughing – I’m not dumb,’ Alan said sharply, ‘and respecting your profession and all, but I’m not a soldier. I’m a baker.’
‘All right, take it easy. I didn’t volunteer either as it happens.’
‘How long have you been with the King’s army, then?’ asked Wayland, hoping to get the man on side.
‘Only a matter of weeks,’ he replied.
‘That’s not long – but it is longer than we have been, swept up with them. I expect you’ve learnt the set–up here? What’s this Hythe? A village? And d’you know him, that one over there?’ Wayland pointed at Carter who was some twenty feet away, riding up and down the front of the line of men.
‘Well, the Hythe, now that’s an easy one. It’s the town’s quay. It’s the loading and unloading point for goods to and from the merchants’ ships. But as to him… now, if you’d asked m
e about anyone but him I could tell you. But that one? It’s a bit of a mystery, to me at least. One minute he’s a prisoner. Next thing, Lisle comes in to see him. Sir George Lisle no less. Five minutes later, he’s not just freed but lording it over us. It’s always the same. It depends on who you know. Doesn’t matter so much what you’ve done.’
‘Aye,’ said Wayland and they left it at that, for at that moment a cry went up. The men furthest from them had discovered a huge stash of goods on the quayside. Wayland and Alun went over there to see. There were great sacks of wheat, barley, salt, spice – and some powder that turned out on further inspection to be gunpowder.
‘Gifts as a great Providence!’ one man was moved to shout.
‘This find must surely tide us over until such time as the relief forces arrive.’ exclaimed another. Many of the men were whooping as if to signify their agreement.
‘If indeed any relief is to make it here.’ said Wayland but he said it quietly, for only Alun to hear.
They walked further out, along from the inner ramparts, passing several buildings hit by Parliamentary canons. Women and children swarmed over the rubble, snatching up anything that might conceivably be useful to the besieged: wood for the fires, anything that could be eaten, iron for forging weapons. They looked round constantly as they worked, in dread of further bombardments. Wayland nudged Alun.
‘Over there! Is that what I think it is?’
There was a semi–circle of stone showing amongst some fallen timbers. Alun hurried over to it. He pulled away the small stones and wood covering the rest of it. ‘Yes!’ he shouted back.
Carter must have heard him for he looked up and kicked his horse to canter over to Alun.
‘What’s all your fuss about?’ Carter didn’t look impressed, ‘what can our forces do with that old stone? Do you think we might throw it from the city walls onto the enemy, like some old Roman? Is that the best you’ve got?’
‘It’s a millstone,’ said Wayland, ‘it has considerable value now: with the mills gone, destroyed by Fairfax’s men on their way out of here, we’ve none left within the walls.’
Carter just stared.
‘The flour,’ said Alun, ‘we need it to make flour.’
There was a pause. ‘All right – but how shall it turn? Are we to build a windmill for you now?’ Carter’s tone was more confident again, his voice rising with sarcasm.
‘We can rig up a pulley for a horse to turn it. Wayland will know how to fashion one.’ said Alun.
Carter said nothing it at first. Maybe he didn’t like being shown up as ignorant in front of his men. ‘We’ll take it then,’ he said eventually, jabbing at his horse with his spurs, ‘and you –’ he turned to Alun, ‘you can bring it in. And that’s an order’
Alun looked at Wayland but went nevertheless to pull at one of the timbers pinning the stone down – and fell straightaway into a coughing fit.
‘Don’t be daft, man, he can’t shift that.’ Wayland shouted across the way.
Carter looked round and wrenched his horse into a tight turn. He trotted over to Wayland. ‘He – and you – can and shall follow my orders. Or he can take the consequences.’ he said.
‘It needs a horse and cart, clear as day.’ said Wayland, ‘I’ll send for one.’
‘No horse that belongs to our King will pull a cart.’ Carter said with such viciousness that the men near to him stopped working and stared. Noticing that, Carter rode right up to Wayland, drew his sword and rested it on Wayland’s shoulder. ‘I could have your throat slit, or I could do it myself, right now,’ he said, his voice a harsh hiss.
A thin line of red trickled down Wayland’s neck but he stood still, ignoring the sword. He stared back at Carter. ‘You’re singing a different tune today.’ he remarked.
Carter’s neck muscles tensed and his cheeks flushed red. ‘I have connections here,’ Carter said finally, ‘and you’d do well to remember that.’
‘Oh, I will, don’t you worry – for now. Maybe when this…’ Wayland waved his arm in the general direction of the town walls, ‘is all over, then you can start to worry. Unless you’d like to finish telling me now what it was you were going to tell me back at the alehouse.’
Carter pulled the sword back, went to sheath it, changed his mind and slapped his horse with the flat blade. The horse jerked straight into a canter.
Wayland watched Carter go.
‘I thought for one minute he was going to knight you, what with that sword on the shoulder thing.’ said Alun, loud enough that a couple of nearby soldiers laughed. Alun waited until they’d all settled back into sorting through the mess of stone and timber. He turned to Wayland. ‘We’ll have to watch our back with him, mind you, let alone worry about getting to him. And now, what do we do now?’
‘Right now,’ said Wayland, ‘now we get a horse and cart to pull home that millstone. You can take a break from shifting stuff and amble back into the centre. Borrow – and I am saying borrow not take – a cart from someone in the town. Be courteous about it too – we need the townsfolk on our side and they’ll be riled up already, what with the Parliamentarians burning their homes and this lot taking just whatever they fancy. When you have the cart, go get Jonathan and have him harness up my mare and bring the cart here. Then we’ll rope up the millstone, maybe get some of those men over there to help. Maybe we can just roll the it up on to the cart with a flat slab of wood and we’re away.’
‘Amble?’ said Alun, spluttering, ‘Yes, I think I can manage an amble. The town baker, Rowland, should likely have a flour cart – stashed away somewhere by now if I know bakers.’ He started to set off back into the town but turned back. ‘When we’ve finished with that great stone,’ he began.
‘Finished with it? How do you mean? You’ll not be finished having to grind out flour till the Parliamentary Army’s done besieging.’ said Wayland.
‘When we’ve finished,’ Alun repeated, ‘I can think of a neck we can tie it to. Then we can try his idea of tipping it over the city walls.’
Wayland grunted and turned back to sorting through the rubble. But he did take some brief pleasure from his fleeting vision of Carter, thrown into some fast–moving river with that millstone weighing him down.
22.
Wayland woke with a start. He shook his head, trying to clear from it the remnants of his usual nightmare involving the witnessing of one of Rebecca’s many deaths, in horrendous detail, himself powerless. He knew that some sound had wakened him. Now he strained to hear what it was. Outside there was the barest hint of a dawn to come. It was too late, then, for the usual carousing to have woken him, even if the Royalist officers had had some really good reason to celebrate. The usual disturbance from Fairfax’s men as they constructed yet more fortifications in the dark, so as to avoid the muskets and canons of the King’s men, had ceased in recent nights. Wayland guessed that they had moved on, away from his side of the town. So what could it have been then? A brawl? No, not that – for then it came again, and he knew it now for a woman’s voice, that of a woman in fear. He waited, hoping it would stop.
When it didn’t, he reached for his breeches, pulled them on and padded, shoeless, to the door. Last night, he and Alun had been talking late, past their unofficial curfew time and Alun had stayed over in the smithy rather than risk the ire of the King’s Men patrolling. He looked over now to Alun’s makeshift bed. He saw him stir but then utter some kind of grunt and roll over. Wayland left him there and ventured out. He trod carefully between the solid lumps of sleeping men on the floor in the main room beyond his and went out into the street. He paused to listen. The woman’s cry came again, higher pitched and sounding more desperate. It came, he reckoned, from the third or fourth hovel along the street. He gave a quick glance behind him but there was no sign of anyone else awake. The noise got louder as he neared the last house in the row, but Wayland didn’t run. Instead, he slowed to a h
alt by its window. There seemed to be a faint light on in the house. Perhaps it was candle–light from an adjoining room, thought Wayland. He strained his eyes to see into the house. Nothing. Then he heard a man’s grunt followed by the sound of a fist hitting flesh. The woman’s cries had turned to sobs now.
‘Lie still, you whore,’ hissed a man’s voice, ‘I’ll be at your manky pole–hole whether you will or no.’
Wayland felt his heart race as his reflexes kicked in and his mind filled with violence. Later, he did wonder if his reactions would have been so quick and so extreme if he had not so recently dreamt of Rebecca. And if he’d not thought he recognised the man’s voice: Carter. Yes, it was Carter, no doubt. Wayland had both a strong feeling for justice and a general inclination to protect women and children. He was a father and he’d been a husband. But maybe the truth was that it was his lust for revenge that was driving him right now. He hurled himself at the door again and again until it splintered and cracked in two. He took in the scene in an instant. Carter had the woman on the floor. Her skirt and petticoats were up, his breeches were down – and he had a knife at her exposed breast. Blood trickled from the knifepoint across the whiteness of her skin.
‘What in God’s name…’ Carter began as he caught sight of Wayland.
‘God?’ Wayland shouted, ‘You have the nerve to call on God?’
Carter stood up. ‘You?’ he said. He started to pull his breeches up with one hand, but Wayland hit him before he finished, knocking the knife out of his other hand. The woman scrabbled back, away from the two men and shrank into a corner. Wayland was shouting: rapid, meaningless insults, each one accompanied by his fist smashing into Carter’s chest. Carter broke away. ‘Have her, then,’ said Carter, panting and trying again to fix his breeches, ‘take her.’