by Lesley Lodge
‘How? asked Alun, ‘How is he to kill it? Must he wrestle it with his bare hands?”
‘A knife.’ was the reply.
Wayland thought quickly. ‘Killing a horse with a knife we’ll lose too much blood,’ he said, ‘they’re big beasts. And… well, happen the blood will be needed for sauce and suchlike.’
The guard thought for a moment. ‘Can you fire a musket?’
‘No, sir.’ Wayland lied.
‘You can’t give him a musket, he’s not one of us, he’s no King’s man.’ objected the other officer.
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ came the reply, ‘we’re all stuck here. No one can get away. There are four thousand of us and only one of him and he’s got nowhere to go.’ He showed Wayland how to load the gun and Wayland tried to look as if he was learning.
‘Ammunition is in limited supply – obviously,’ said the officer, ‘or I’d shoot a horse myself. We need you to pick the right one and we need you to know which part of the animal to shoot. I’m giving you just the one shot.’ And with that, he turned to leave. The other officer barred his way.
‘The other thing,’ he said, looking at Wayland and reaching into a large bag, ‘is that as we’ve just told you, ammunition is running low. We need more. We’ve gotten hold of these…’ He pulled out a collection of musket balls and laid them on the flat of the anvil. Wayland spotted straightaway that they were Parliamentary supply balls – and therefore just that little bit too large to fit the weapons that most of the King’s men carried. He guessed what was coming but he said nothing. ‘No doubt you’ve got some equipment to file these down to size,’ said the officer.
‘Aye, happen,’ said Wayland ‘but I’ll have to heat them up first…’
‘Don’t bore us with the detail, man. Just get it done.’ Both officers made off towards the door. The second officer couldn’t resist a parting joke. ‘Go easy heating them up!’ he suggested, ‘Or you’ll be firing bits of yourself at the enemy!’
Wayland clenched and unclenched his fists quickly in exasperation. ‘When?’ he called, ‘When do you need them?’
‘Tues…’ the second officer began to reply, but he stopped when the other one grabbed his arm.
‘Just get them ready by tomorrow.’ he said and at last they were gone.
‘Sounds like a sally out to attack is on the cards,’ said Alun.
‘Aye, and they good as told us when,’ said Wayland, ‘mind, who could we tell? Even if we wanted to. Better get on with it all, I suppose.’
* * *
Filing down the ammunition would be a fiddly but simple enough task for Wayland and he made a start by picking out the tools for that job first, to give himself time to think about the bigger task. He’d killed horses before but only as acts of mercy, finishing off injured mounts after battle. So he was reasonably confident that he could do it with minimum stress to the horse – and with just the one bullet. But it went against his conscience to kill an uninjured horse. He supposed he’d do it, of course, if he were starving. But while he and Alun had been short of food for days now, he didn’t reckon they were starving – yet. Besides, he had no illusions that he or Alun would get any share in the meat from this horse. And his assessment of the King’s men was that they simply weren’t used to light rations. Nevertheless, this was clearly a case – as it was more generally, he supposed – of follow the order or risk some severe punishment, perhaps even his own summary execution.
Wayland ran through in his mind the town’s horses that he’d seen and could remember. He tried to rank them in order of suitability. He soon realized that wasn’t working and so he set out to walk round the various make–do stables that had been set up around the town. He cast a quick eye first over the cavalry horses, noting that while all of them had rather more rib showing than was healthy, none of them would fit the bill of ‘having some problem’ and anyway he very much doubted that Sir Charles would want one of his own horses killed however big a feast it might provide. He walked on towards the regular stables. These were owned by Colchester’s main provider of horses for hire, but all horses in Colchester had now been formally requisitioned by Sir Charles Lucas on behalf of the King and by decree. In fact, thought Wayland, in practice every animal – and indeed every soul – in the town was now subject to Royalist command and whim, with or without the formalities. So original ownership need be no obstacle to Wayland’s choice. Nevertheless, he knew he’d be loath to take away some poor widow’s only horse, if there was any likelihood she’d otherwise get it back some day. So he passed by a couple of nags tethered on the small patch of common land. He found a couple of armed guards at the main stables and explained his mission, showing them the sealed pass signed by Sir Charles. The manservant left in charge of the stables stood by, wary, at the entrance. Wayland’s two guards chose to stay there too, all preferring to leave him to his grim task.
Wayland walked past the fitter horses, those still in individual stalls, until he came to a wide open barn space where the weaker horses had been quartered. They formed a loose circle. Some were standing; some were lying down. He placed the musket on top of a pile of leather buckets. Two of the horses, hearing the once familiar noise of a man touching a bucket handle, looked up in hope but the rest remained listless, heads down. Wayland approached one that was lying down, eyes half closed. When it stayed down, acknowledging him only with a brief flicker of the ears, he knew for sure that it was pretty weak. He noted some hoof–shaped wounds on its hindquarters. Bullied, he thought, and denied what little food there was by the other horses. He reckoned it didn’t have much longer to live. Still, he needed to be sure that it wasn’t sick of some infectious disease. He knew his own life would not be worth a farthing if he poisoned half of the King’s officers. He pulled up its eyelids and looked closely at its eyes. He checked the nose and ran his hand gently over its flanks. ‘You’ll do, old boy.’ he whispered.
Wayland reached out a small bag from inside his jerkin and pulled out a few sprigs of sage. He rubbed some over the barrel of the musket and pressed the rest to the horse’s muzzle. Its dry lips slowly took in the crumbled leaves. The horse closed its eyes as the taste reached its brain. Wayland slowly raised the musket and lined it up. He moved it cautiously forward until it was almost, but not quite, touching the animal’s head. He braced his own body for the kickback – and fired. There followed a cacophony of horse noises as the stronger horses panicked. One of the guards cursed. At first Wayland could see nothing but once the smoke and stable–dust cleared, he saw that his aim had been true. The horse lay, flat out now, stone dead at his feet. There was very little blood. He set off back to the officers’ quarters. He found the one who’d instructed him, playing some kind of betting game with his fellow officers. Wayland reported back that he’d carried out the order.
‘Quickly done, I’ll give you that,’ said the officer, ‘but where is it?’
‘Aye. Well the carcass needs shifting quick too. I doubt it’ll stay whole there for long before others will be feasting instead of your commander.’ Wayland replied. The officer glared at him but got up quickly and left, shouting orders for the butcher to be found.
Wayland looked in on his own two horses back near the smithy. His grim work today had brought home to him all the more the threats to their lives – and to his own life and Jonathan’s.
28.
Thomas Fairfax was Commander–in–Chief of the new Model Army and, more specifically, at this time General to the besieging Parliamentary army. Previously Sir Thomas Fairfax, he was now a Lord, following to his father’s death only a few months back. He was known to many of his men, though, as ‘Black Tom’ as much for his demeanour as for his darkish complexion. He had the respect of all his men but not the affection of all of them. Most found him too intense and many, including some like Nehemiah, totally failed to understand his persistent struggle to impose on his men his high standards of behaviour and forbear
ance towards the enemy. For his part, Fairfax saw little reason to explain his philosophy for in his mind it was just that: an essential philosophy. Orders, on the other hand, were basic instructions and he expected his men to obey them without hesitating, faltering or questioning. Renowned as a military strategist, he was usually inclined to prefer planning his army’s next move in great detail to picking over the past or dwelling on it.
He was sitting at this moment, however, at the little writing desk that he had brought with him in the baggage train. He was brooding. It was one of those days when his gout–plagued foot would swell up, sending arrows of pain up the leg and – it seemed to Fairfax – straight into his brain, scattering his orderly thoughts. It was at such times – and only such times – that the doubts were able to creep in, if only briefly. Today it seemed that all his mental diagrams of siege fortifications and possible points for penetrating the city walls were being ousted by fleeting images from three years earlier, Naseby. First came a flash of pride, remembering how his men had acclaimed his courage in personally capturing the enemy’s colours. How closely he had worked with the great man himself, Cromwell, in implementing the pincer movement strategy that had won the day! But shame soon followed, like a familiar whisper in his ear.
‘The women…’
The thoughts kept pressing their way into his mind however hard he tried to push them away
‘The slaughter of the women. So many women.’ He knew that the fact of their deaths and even the atrocities, the maiming, had not dented his reputation one little bit, where it counted, that is, with Parliament. His standing was still good with Cromwell and as for his men, while they never somehow seemed to warm to him, he knew they did admire him for his successes. More widely, from the little he’d heard, news of the slaughter had barely travelled. Those who had heard of it seemed to have accepted the notion that the women had been Irish and so, in their eyes, deserving of everything – anything – in revenge, as some kind of repayment for the massacre of Protestants in Ireland some years ago. Knowing all that, though, didn’t help Fairfax. It rankled the smooth cover of his own view of himself as an honourable man. He needed to cling on to that image. The way to banish these troublesome concerns must be to try all the harder to live up to his image of himself. Honour and reputation were life’s blood: to be honourable even in war, however trying the enemy was. And right now the enemy was indeed very trying.
He paced the floor, trying to summon up some thoughts of military strategy and tactics to eject the visions of the butchered women, the screaming, the mutilations. At last the beginnings of a plan came to him and the images of women disappeared again. He sat down and began to compose a message. One that would set out exactly how the besieged Royalist army must surrender. Now, since there was no hope of any relief forces arriving, the only foreseeable outcome was the complete defeat of the King’s Men, one way or another. As Lucas would know – should know – there was no dishonour for a commander in surrendering under such bleak circumstances of siege. And he, Fairfax, would offer honourable terms – the most honourable, and yes, fair, terms.
Later, when his messenger had returned with the report that his offer of honourable surrender had been rejected out of hand, he fumed, alone in his room once more. How dare they reject it? Rightfully, in God’s eyes now, all responsibility for the consequences, for the deaths and mayhem that would now – inevitably – end this siege must surely lie with those inside the city. So, on their heads must it be. They – Lucas, Lisle, Norwich, all of those in command – they would answer for it. Not Sir Thomas Fairfax.
The butchered women did not return this time. Their screams had finally fallen silent. Fairfax felt calm, clear–headed. He felt himself absolved.
29.
Alice had taken to visiting Wayland every few days since his release. On one such visit, he told her to bring a spare set of clothes. She looked at him, puzzled, but with the guard approaching she didn’t question him. On the next occasion, after they had lain together in the little room, he took both sets of her clothes and went down into the smithy. Alice looked down through the open door into the smithy. She saw a large pan of water, the pan that he usually had ready for the hot irons his work involved, already set up by the furnace. He heated his largest iron until it was white hot and plunged the iron into the pan of water. There was a great hissing of steam and for a long while Alice couldn’t see through the steam. When it finally cleared she saw him add some herbs and what looked like tobacco to the water. She nearly shouted out to Wayland when she saw him dunk her clothes into the mix. Instead, she stepped carefully down into the smithy.
Hearing her, Wayland looked up in surprise. She was wrapped in some of the sacking cloths from the bed.
‘Nah,’ he said, ‘don’t fret. We’ll give them a few minutes in water, then I’ll dry ‘em for you. Won’t take a minute in front of the furnace, you’ll see.’
‘But why?’ she asked, ‘I’ve not dirtied them yet.’
‘It’ll fix the little critters,’ he said, ‘they’ll not bother you any more after this.’
‘Thank you,’ she said simply. She was quiet a moment. ‘You’re a very kind man. You obviously care, and you think about the details. But… I wonder…’
Wayland looked up. ‘Wonder what?’
‘Nothing. You’ll likely be mad with me.’
‘I should be mad with you? Me? No, of course I shall not. Tell it. Whatever it is, tell it to me.’
‘All right, I will.’ she said but still she hesitated.
‘You have my word. I can’t say fairer.’ said Wayland.
‘Well, you are being very thoughtful. Kind. I just wonder if, perhaps, sometimes you overlook the bigger things. Sometimes. But it’s not really my business. I mean I don’t know…’
‘What bigger things? What don’t you know? Tell me straight.’
‘I mean Jonathan.’ she said, patting his arm in expectation of rebuff.
‘Jonathan? What about him? What’s he got to do with it?’
‘Well… he’s just a boy, Wayland, a boy who’s been hurt and hurt bad.’
Wayland stared at her.
Alice took a deep breath. ‘He doesn’t talk. I see that. But I think he might. If you encouraged him more. If you gave him a chance.’
‘Of course I give him a chance. Do you think I haven’t tried?’ Wayland was nearly shouting now, but he just caught himself, remembering his promise, in time. He looked down at the floor.
‘Think back to Rebecca,’ said Alice, ‘how was she with the boy?’
Wayland thought. Pictures came to his mind, fast and seeming so real: Rebecca hugging the boy, soothing the boy, listening attentively to his chatter, smiling, laughing.
‘Now think of you and the boy,’ said Alice, ‘when he looks to you, your face is set, grim. You barely speak and when you do, it is to command. When you talk with Alun, even in front of the boy, it’s mostly talk of revenge.’
Wayland looked at her. His mouth opened but no sound came out.
‘But I am his father, I am not a mother to him,’ he said, finally, ‘and I do need revenge – that’s very real. How then can I be otherwise?’
Jonathan had been out, helping the men of the town, under the direction of Lucas’s men, in the daily work of repairing and bolstering the town’s ramparts. They heard him arrive back now, with Alun. Wayland was muttered a curt goodbye to Alice. Jonathan stared at her then turned to Wayland, curiosity obvious in his face. As always, though, he said nothing. In his present mood this merely irritated Wayland further.
‘Don’t stare, boy! Get away with you. Go. Go and … and see to the horses.’ Wayland said. and he shoved the boy away.
Alun took Jonathan’s elbow and led him out of the smithy. When Wayland turned back, the doorway was empty. Alice had gone.
‘Damn it!’ Wayland kicked a broken pike head across the floor, ‘Such a stupi
d boy.’
Alun walked back in. ‘Easy, man, take it easy. Think of it from the boy’s position. He’ll be wondering whether, since you seem to have a new woman, if she’ll be replacing his mother.’
Wayland opened his mouth to reply then closed it again. He sat down abruptly. He banged his fist on the rough table.
‘Matter of fact,’ said Alun, ‘what is going on?’
Wayland was silent a moment. ‘Questions, always questions, never answers.’ he said finally.
‘Maybe you if you talked to the boy more you’d both gain something.’ said Alun.
‘Oh. You as well? Well maybe if you minded your own matters…’ Wayland stopped short, only to continue, ‘I’m not one for fancy speeches, explaining this, reassuring that – besides, the boy needs to –’
‘There,’ interrupted Alun, ‘you’ve said it yourself.’
‘What?’
‘Boy. He’s still a child. A child who’s lost his mother – and in such very violent circumstances from what you’ve told me. It’s affected you bad enough… think what it’s done to him.’
Wayland scowled, but Alun continued. ‘Chasing revenge is one thing. But seeing only revenge and missing what’s right in front of you is another.’
Alun paused to look at Wayland but all he got in reply was a grunt. ‘I’m off, then,’ he said, ‘if you’ve nothing else to say.’ With that, he left Wayland sitting there.
Wayland continued to sit there a long time. He knew he felt bad but he was unable to fully acknowledge, even to himself, that Alun had a point. He tried to steer his mind away in a different direction. He tried to concentrate on Alice in bed, how she’d looked without clothes but again and again it was those recent words of hers that came to mind and that just added to his uneasiness. He pushed away both paths of thought and set his hands to work with the metal, as was his wont, and his brain to brood again on thoughts of death – Rebecca’s death, that young boy’s death, how their killer should die in turn. All he needed was the chance to find him. Surely God owed him that. He, Wayland, could take care of the rest of it.