by Lesley Lodge
‘I was more than skin and bones before this siege,’ she said, pulling her skirts up to cover her body.
He stood up, slowly so as not to alarm her. ‘It’s not that, I mean, it’s just that I’m hot.’ he said. Moving to the corner of the room he tipped half a bucket of tepid water over his head. He rubbed his hair vigorously before pouring the remaining water onto his chest and using a handful of straw to take away most of the water. ‘Stay here,’ he said, ‘I’ll be gone only a minute.’ Before she could object he was gone. True to his word, though, he came back quickly and sat down beside her. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘don’t take this wrong. I’ve brought you a posy.’
She stared at the twigs he was holding. They looked a little spiky, but she saw that he had tied them roughly together. She raised an eyebrow in question.
‘Rosemary,’ he said, ‘and, ah, two other herbs. They make life difficult for lice. They don’t solve the problem altogether, but they do help keep the critters at bay. My wife had a great knowledge of herbs and I still remember some of it.’ He lifted her long dark hair away and tucked the sprigs behind her ear.
‘Oh,’ she replied, blushing, and then she said, ‘thanks.’
Wayland stroked her hair back over her ear. He didn’t know what to say next.
‘How long ago did your wife die?’ she asked.
‘She died over one year back,’ he said.
They lay together a while but both were tensed up now. He wondered if his clumsy gesture and the mention of his wife had come between them but also both of them knew that this time in the little upstairs room was likely to be cut short at any moment by a shout for him or for her. It came soon enough.
‘Smith! You’re wanted. Now.’
He pulled on his jerkin and she adjusted her petticoats and skirts. She looked into his eyes when he bent to kiss her, and she reached for the herbs and rolled them into the back of her bonnet before tying it firmly by its ribbons. ‘Wait,’ he said, his back turned as he pulled up his breeches, ‘when can I – I mean when can we…’
But she was already gone. Instead he saw two of the King’s men, standing by his furnace, smirking, as he tucked his shirt back into his breeches.
25.
The other consequence of the attack on Alice was that clearly it changed the position with regard to Carter. At first Wayland did worry that, despite his previous, confident dismissal of such a possibility, Carter might have reported the attack on him and it played on his mind that unpleasant consequences would follow. A few more days passed uneventfully though, and the uneasy feeling began to leave him. Instead, he and Alun discussed again and again their hoped–for encounter with Carter and what it might mean in terms of opportunities to question the man further. One morning they were sorting through the charcoal stores, setting to one side the big lumps needed for the smithy furnace and to the other side the smaller pieces more suited for the bakery oven. Wayland suddenly picked up the bellows and threw them into the far corner of the smithy.
‘When?’ he shouted, ‘When will God grant me the truth? Will we never get any further with our search? Can we never find justice for the boy’s death? Or for Rebecca’s death? We will likely perish in this Godforsaken town, murdered by one side or the other. Or starve to death. All for no reason.’
They had no time for further discussion, though. There was a familiar shout of ‘Smith! You’re wanted. Now.’
They heard the sound of heavy boots coming towards them. Only the King’s officers still had their proper boots whole and intact. Wayland recognized the men who crashed into the smithy as two of Lucas’s most trusted officers. ‘You,’ said the first officer, ‘Sir Charles Lucas has ordered you to be confined.’
‘Confined?’ said Wayland, suddenly calm, to his own surprise, ‘Are we not all confined, here in this town?’
‘None of your insolence.’ said the officer and he leant forward and slapped Wayland across the face with a mesh–gloved hand. The blow left track marks over Wayland’s face where the metal had scraped his skin away. The other officer reached behind Wayland, jerking him arm up until it locked. Wayland said nothing, but his face turned white, making a greater contrast with the vivid red welts.
‘Get him out of here!’ barked the first man.
‘Sirs,’ Alun asked softly, ‘where are you taking him?’
‘That is none of your business. Unless you would like to join him.’
The second officer, pushing Wayland in front of him, went to follow his comrade but paused at the door. ‘Lockup,’ he mouthed to Alun, ‘beside Head Gate.’
Wayland was taken, half dragged, half pushed, across part of the town and pushed into a dingy, windowless room. From the pungent smell of horse urine he realised it must have been a stable until recently. The iron bars across the one window were now planked over with wood on the outside, rendering the room so dark that he could at first see nothing. The officers had flung him in none too gently and he stumbled over the wet, stinking straw. ‘Wait,’ he shouted, ‘who accuses me and what am I accused of?’
‘This is a time of war. You needn’t expect some orderly form of justice.’ was all the answer he got. That and a guffaw.
‘I should still be told!’ he said.
There was no further reply as the door crashed shut. Feeling with his hands, he found a relatively dry spot of straw and sat down. He guessed Carter had complained after all. So the crucial thing now was to try to work out what the man would have said, in order to counter the accusations, whatever they were. His eyes gradually adjusted to the meagre light and he could make out a pail in one corner and two bowls in another. The first bowl had black stains but nothing else. The second had some yellowish water. He had to smell it closely to make sure it was water and not urine.
Nothing else happened that day. No one brought food or even water. He passed a restless night, uncomfortable on the scratchy straw, his mind churning with the possible punishments they might choose to inflict on him. The second day, though, some bread and clean water was brought in. Soon after that Wayland heard more footsteps and then some kind of struggle or kerfuffle outside and it seemed to him as though a man – or men – were being pushed into a room next to his. The only words he could readily understand were those spoken in an exaggerated, polite tone by an officer: ‘I am so sorry. But since your side doesn’t believe in royalty, we shall not treat you as such,’ and then in a normal voice, ‘you’re going to have to like it or lump it with the common prisoners.’
That door clanked shut and he heard someone fall on to the straw. There was a further jangling of keys and the door to his own cell flew open. A man was thrust into the room. The door crashed shut again. Wayland could just make out through the gloom some tatters of a uniform. A closer look revealed the once plain cut of the coat and that told him that this man was from the Parliamentary side too. Wayland himself had been a pikeman in the earlier war, before the army had introduced proper uniforms but he knew enough about developments in the new “Model” army to hazard a guess that this man was a musketeer. He was wary of talking to him, lest the secret of his own military past should come out. He also suspected that he guards would likely be on the lookout to ingratiate themselves with the King’s officers by relaying back whatever their prisoners said that could be incriminating.
Two more days passed. Wayland and his fellow prisoner had exchanged some few words about necessities – necessities that were limited in their bare lodgings to food, water and the shared use of the bucket for bodily waste. Wayland was still cautious in his approach to the other man and it seemed such instinctive reticence was mutual. They were both, however, extremely bored. Wayland had found a bent horseshoe nail and he began scratching pictures on the wooden walls. At first he drew lakes of varying sizes and shapes. He tried to make the water look rough, as in his nightmares but after a while he found that etching smoother, more regular waves was somehow soothing and he fi
lled a whole wall panel with them. It was the development of a large blister on his forefingers, rather than some spirit of generosity, that prompted him to offer the nail to the stranger. The man took it but simply stared at Wayland at first. He seemed to reflect a moment but then ventured a half–smile at his benefactor and began doodling on the wall on “his” side of their cell.
Next morning, when the sun had risen enough to bring their usual mean ration of light through the cracks in the wooden planks across the top half of the stable door, Wayland saw that the opposite wall was covered in scratched markings. Most of them seemed to be abstract designs, mere meanderings of the nail. Then Wayland noticed one quite different from the others. He stared. He moved in for a closer look. There could be no doubt. It was the sign of the Crossed Keys.
26.
Wayland discounted all caution and spoke directly to his fellow prisoner. ‘That sign,’ he said, pointing to the Crossed Keys, ‘why did you draw that? Do you understand its meaning?’
The other man looked up. ‘No.’ he replied and then appeared to regret having said anything.
‘Look,’ said Wayland, ‘I’ll be honest with you. I’m not some common prisoner and I’m no Royalist spy either. I’m just caught up in this siege because the King’s men forced me along. In fact, if I had to choose, I should probably favour the Parliamentary side.’
The man said nothing.
‘But anyhow, we need not speak of things of one side or the other. My interest is only in your drawing. For I have seen it before and I have a need to know more.’
‘What does it signify then?’
‘A wise woman explained it to me,’ said Wayland, choosing to avoid mention of the magistrate to a prisoner. He went on to recount the explanation of the Crossed Keys cross as it had been told to him. When he’d finished, the man sat back, a little less tense than before and Wayland guessed he’d passed some kind of test. ‘I’m Matthew,’ he said, ‘the King’s men caught me right by the Gate when they sallied out. At first they treated me well enough, trying to trap me into informing stuff I didn’t know anyway. Then they beat me, but they eventually found it didn’t improve my knowledge any. Now they’ve slung me in here, I guess they’ve given up. My big hope is that Fairfax, my general, will agree to exchange one of theirs for me.’
Wayland gave his usual short speech, introducing himself as a blacksmith and added some words of encouragement on the idea of a prisoner exchange. They chatted a while about the madness of war amongst people of the same country. ‘And the same God.’ Matthew added, leading Wayland to fear a lecture along biblical lines. Matthew may have guessed his thoughts for he suddenly changed tone. ‘But you were asking about my scratching on the wall,’ he said, ‘and I confess it’s an image that has played on my mind too.’
‘Why so? Is it something that is commonplace among you in Fairfax’s army? Is it some comment on Papists?’
‘No. ‘Tis not at all commonplace, thank the Lord. One of our men – but maybe I should not say more.’ He paused and Wayland allowed the silence to hang there a while, being careful to shield the intensity of his need to know. He realised from his words that Matthew was a man of some learning. Wayland supposed that such men were likely more easily offended. He resolved to deal carefully in speaking with him. He waited.
‘But what hurt could it do in here?’ Matthew finally continued. ‘One of our men has, to my way of thinking you understand, turned from the true teachings of our Lord and is headed for eternal damnation. The Lord must catch him, for I fear our men will not.’
‘Why not?’
‘All his sins are hidden.’
‘Hidden? Yet you know of them?’
‘Hidden from sight or hidden in plain sight, under the cover of war.’
‘These sins – are they crimes? For it has not escaped me that both sides in this war claim to have our Lord God on their side. Is it excesses you mean?’
‘Excesses, yes, and abominable deeds.’
‘But where does this Crossed Keys sign fit in?’ Wayland asked, his heart quickening as he began to suspect he knew the answer.
‘He has taken against all of womankind it appears to me. It seems, well, that he cannot restrict his killings to the legitimate and inevitable deaths of war. Atrocities do happen in war, this I know to be too true. But I’m not speaking of deaths in the battle heat. He kills when he can. He likes to kill slowly. And he cuts… he cuts the sign in their bodies.’
‘Alive or dead?’ Wayland asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes? Which? Alive or dead?’
Matthew swallowed hard. ‘It makes no difference to him, so far as I can tell. The thing with him is that he must do it. If he cannot do it then and there, after the kill, he must return and do it.’
‘Does no one stop him?’
‘After the massacre of women at Naseby, there was some talk of action against those who committed the worst of the carnage, but the war moved on, with Prince Rupert attacking Leicester and the like. And besides, this man I’m speaking of and some others simply disappeared around then.’
Wayland could continue no longer in his role of impassive curiosity. ‘Who is this man though?’ he burst out.
‘Of what importance is his name? Surely what he is and why he is so readily capable of such unearthly cruelty is more to know?’
‘True indeed,’ replied Wayland, struggling to contain his impatience, ‘but have you any answer to those questions?’
‘Well, no, not I. But some have tried to figure the answer and some have even asked him.’
‘To what effect?’
‘He does confess himself a convert and I have noticed that converts often turn to more extremes that those persons who converted them.’
‘That is true. I have seen it too. But in this case he converted from what and to what?’
Matthew fidgeted with some strands of straw. ‘He grew up – as many of us did – with the old Catholic beliefs. I’m not saying I have those beliefs now, mind…’ Wayland nodded to show that he took no especial interest in Catholic tendencies. Matthew continued.
‘Some said he turned away from that when the village priest ruined his young sister with a child. But in all honesty I do not know. I know only that his belief now, if belief is the right word, is severe in the extreme.’
There was no opportunity for further discussion. They heard the guards approaching. Keys jangled, the door was thrust open and a shaft of light blinded both men temporarily.
‘Your lucky day.’ said one of the guards.
‘Yes,’ added the other, ‘but do we bring good luck or bad?’
27.
The guards, it turned out, had been sent to haul Matthew away. Wayland hoped for Matthew’s sake that it was for some exchange of prisoners. He found though that he did not really miss his erstwhile companion, preferring to stay alone with his thoughts.
He had plenty of time for that, as it turned out. Days and days of it passed – maybe weeks, he lost count – until one day the same guards returned. ‘Now it’s your turn.’ said one, his voice grim.
Wayland decided not to give him the satisfaction of a reply. They pulled him upright by the arms, marched him, squeezed tight between them, back to the smithy and hurled him down on to the stone floor. ‘Get up and get ready.’
‘Get ready for what?’ he asked, but the soldiers were gone. Alun was there, though, tending to the furnace. He seemed unsurprised at Wayland’s reappearance. He went to pull him up, but Wayland shrugged him off and stood up, patting down his rumpled jerkin.
‘It seems there’s a parley on tonight,’ the guard continued, ‘and Sir Charles wants a proper supper laid on.’
‘I’m no cook,’ Wayland said, ‘you have the wrong man.’
‘And I’m no wizard,’ said Alun, ‘what could I cook them? The townsfolk are eating dogs. The lucky ones anyway.
I’ve seen some serving up rat.’
‘And I’ve no time for wit,’ replied the officer, ‘when there are orders to follow. You are to slaughter a horse for us.’
Wayland realised the man was serious. A horse. Things had become that desperate while he was in prison. Immediately he feared for his own horses. Of course, they would be at greatest risk since they didn’t even belong to any soldier. They would hold no value to the King’s men. Horror–struck, he stared at the officers.
‘Get to it, then, man,’ said officer.
‘Tell him the rest,’ said the other officer, ‘about the selecting.’
‘Sir Charles says to…’ he paused, searching for the right word, ‘to emphasise to you that he doesn’t want some tough old nag that’s been eating the thatch off roofs...’ he said.
‘He says there’ll be a time for that if reinforcements don’t get here soon.’ added the second officer, keen to say something.
‘Do a smith and a baker …’ the first soldier almost spat the words out, ‘need to know that? No they do not.’ He turned back to Wayland. ‘You’re the horse expert. You’re to choose one, maybe one that’s got some problem but still got some flesh on it. Here’s Sir Charles Lucas’s authority and seal. Choose the horse, show its owner the seal and kill it near the kitchens.’