Wayland's Revenge

by Lesley Lodge

  30.

  Sir Charles Lucas had chosen to head for Colchester in the first place because it was his home town. His family estate, a large manor house, lay just south of Colchester’s town wall, in the grounds of St John’s, the crumbling and now disused Abbey. He had come seeking the supplies and security he expected his home to provide while he waited for reinforcements. Now, however, his home was beyond his reach and only a source of worry to him. With Colchester now fully under siege, Lucas was trapped, stuck inside the immediate town, reliant on just a small force of loyal men to protect his home beyond the city wall.

  Granted, for now Sir Charles Lucas himself was quartered beyond the reach of his enemies but whenever there was a lull in the defensive and offensive actions of the Royalist force he commanded, he fretted about his home. It was to turn out that his fears were by no means unfounded. For while Sir Charles Lucas remained besieged in his quarters in Colchester, Fairfax’s army, impatient and uncomfortable, were likewise forced to remain, restless, in their newly dug trenches outside the town, day after day and night after night, soaked through to the skin more often than not. With no near prospect of a call to arms, after the rain, boredom was their main enemy. When they weren’t wringing out their clothing or bickering in irritation with their fellows they mostly turned to fantasies of warm beds and willing bed companions. And so, when a suggestion was made to sally out, there was no shortage of volunteers. Nehemiah was one of them. If only he had not gone, if only they had followed a different route, maybe things would have turned out differently. But then again, given so much misery and pent–up emotions, maybe not so very differently.

  The force chosen for this expedition was not overly large. Many men were left behind, disappointed, but it was obvious that too large a party would be more easily spotted. Their leader for that night knew about the Lucas estate. His simple goal was to check out to what extent it might be guarded and to take it if possible. He knew that his commander’s thinking was that it could prove a useful bargaining tool. However, once the little party reached St John’s, they met with a fierce, if short, resistance. The Parliamentary side soon overcame the defenders but the men were resentful, disgruntled at the unexpectedly hard fight they’d had. Once inside, though, they found that everything was still ordered as a great house should be. They ran quickly through the empty halls and high–ceiled rooms, pausing just momentarily to marvel at the paintings and tapestries. They reached the kitchen, stopping briefly to smash open a few earthenware storage pots. They carried on to the wine stores: Lucas’s prized wine collection stretched out before them. Faced with such large quantities of fine wine after so many privations, the men had little hesitation in opening some. Bottle tops were smashed and their contents poured down throats. Unused in recent weeks to alcohol, they soon felt its impact. And as most men know, wine generally calls up the urge for more wine.

  Swaggering and laughing, bottles in hand, they moved further in through the Lucas properties and into the church of St Giles. The Lucas family had used the little church, set within the grounds, to house the tombs of their dead. When they reached these tombs, only two men had doubts and drew back. The rest pressed on. Inside, the dark mausoleum that might in different times have seemed oppressive and solemn simply struck the men as another dry place, a welcome relief from the rain and mud. ‘I’ve heard,’ said one man, ‘that such folks as the Lucases – Knights, Lords and the like – they bury their dead in their finery, with jewels and all.’

  ‘Well,’ shouted another, ‘I wager that you could be right. And I can think of one sure way to find out if that’s so or not.’ He climbed up on to the nearest structure and threw his weigh at its stone cross. There was a loud crack as the structure snapped at the base, its weakest point. With a shriek of triumph, the soldier hurled the cross down on to one of the tombs, smashing it open and sending dust and stone chips flying. Straightaway, hands rifled hungrily down through its contents but managed to seize only dry and crumbling bones. Most men were so drunk by now that it didn’t take long before a childish throwing fight began. Bones and dust dirtied the air. Nehemiah kept well back from this play fight though. He could see some more tombs a little way off. He was one of the few in the group there who could read a little. He was also less drunk than most. He moved away from the melee and began reading the inscriptions.

  ‘Hey now,’ he called out, ‘listen up: here there are two corpses only a little while buried. Women they are too, the writing on their tomb says: Margaret Cavendish and Mary Cavendish.’ Nehemiah drew back, unnoticed, as men rushed to crowd around the tombs. Intoxicated and frenzied, they battered these tombs until they too were smashed. A couple of men with stout poles soon lifted off the shattered stone pieces. There was a sudden, brief silence as they inspected the corpses within. None of the men noticed any stench of decay – the air was already ripe with the smells of sodden clothes, sweat and wine. They crowded forward to look inside. The bodies they saw were still recognizably female. Their chests had caved in, but their faces were gaunt and tight. ‘Well,’ said one of the men, ‘you said it right enough. These are women. Not the best looking I’ve ever seen though.’

  ‘Don’t they say beggars cannot choose?’ laughed another and went to lift up the skirts of the corpse nearest to him. Somebody else went for the hair.

  ‘Look,’ yelled that one, ‘feel it – the hair. It’s still soft. So soft.’

  This sent the rest of the men into a fever of grabbing. As soon as the first man had pulled a handful of the corpse’s hair, everyone wanted some. Nehemiah sidled off back to the wine store and brought back more bottles. His action – and he knew it well – was like stoking a fire. There was no limit now to the craziness of this mob. They fastened bones and clumps of hair to their clothes. They roared, they laughed, they sang bawdy songs; they urinated into tombs. The desecration of the Lucas family mausoleum was total, utterly complete. Nehemiah smiled to himself. The extreme acts of his fellow soldiers pleased him. He conjured up a mental picture of the grief and helpless anger that Sir Charles would suffer when he heard about it. But still it occurred to him that this pleasure was not enough. He had – he realised it now – no physical arousal. The whole experience was too frenetic and too… shared. He knew for sure then how he far preferred to act alone and deliberately. And he preferred real blood and some pain to watch. A lot of pain. He needed that, and the need felt urgent.

  31.

  Over the next few days, Wayland and Alun took it in turns to pass by the building where Carter was recovering, to look in and to observe, unnoticed, the man’s progress. They became convinced that he was much better. ‘I reckon he’s faking it now,’ Alun said, ‘yesterday I saw him walking, bending down, picking stuff up from the floor. The man was positively skipping – when he thought no–one was looking.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ asked Wayland, a sour look on his face, ‘Wouldn’t you play it up if you thought you could sit there, day after day, being fed the King’s men’s rations, not having to fight and not having to risk death.’

  ‘And not having to build ramparts while dodging enemy fire or harvest parliamentary cannon balls in the night from the rubble they’ve made in the day,’ said Alun, ‘that’s what they’ve got me doing, that’s my lot now – forget that it’s one I never signed up to. It makes work such as the kneading and stoking the ovens seem easy as making daisy chains.’

  ‘Stop grumbling,’ said Wayland, forgetting that he had begun it, ‘and start thinking how we can get to him again.’

  Chance was to deliver them a second opportunity to quiz Carter sooner than either of them expected. Wayland had just been paid for some delicate repairs to Sir Charles’s own armour. Money in the besieged town was by now pretty much acknowledged by all to be next to useless and meat was mostly just a thought that filled men’s minds. So this time his “pay” was in small sacks of flour. The flour was much greyer than it should be, and Wayland spotted some small movements in
it that pointed to the presence of more than a few weevils. He doubted that Alice could make much of it as it stood so he’d decided to take it over to Alun to use for bread first.

  Wayland was standing in the bakery, half hidden in the shadows behind the ovens, when Carter and another officer walked through the baker’s hovel and into the bakery itself. ‘Just pick up Sir Charles’s order,’ said the other officer to Carter, ‘you can manage that on your own, now, can’t you?’

  Carter nodded.

  ‘Only, the thing is, I’ve got to see a man about a dog.’ the officer added, with a wink.

  ‘We’re not reduced to eating dogs, are we, while there are horses left?’ asked Carter.

  ‘We’re not,’ replied the officer, ‘but the townsfolk are eating dogs, cats, rats, anything that moves. So, the way I see it, chances are that I can barter this dog for something that’ll sell – when we get out of here. If the dog’s still got some meat on it, that is. So I will see you back at our delightful lodgings. Don’t let on to anyone, mind.’ This last comment was spoken as he turned to leave.

  ‘Baker!’ shouted Carter, his voice taut with self–importance. Moving further into the room and seeing Alun, he said, ‘Get me the usual order for Sir Charles –’

  He stopped short as Wayland stepped out of the shadows and slammed shut the door, blocking his escape. ‘Now then,’ he began but got no further as Alun grasped his left arm while Wayland moved quickly to grab his jacket.

  Without a word, Wayland wrenched Carter’s right arm away from him and yanked it up behind his back until it was fixed in an arm lock. He was now able to control the man with one hand. With his free hand he flexed the long horse lead rope that he had slung over one shoulder. He threw it at Alun. ‘Make a noose,’ he said.

  Alun stared at Wayland and fiddled a little with the rope. But he did twist it round until he had it where he wanted it. He fixed the slipknot and looked back at Wayland.

  ‘Well?’ Wayland asked. He turned to Carter, his gaze boring right through the man all the while to somewhere beyond him. He stroked Carter’s neck. His calloused hands might have felt rough on Carter’s skin, but the caressing action was gentle, almost erotic. Carter’s eyes opened wider. Wayland nodded to Alun. Alun snapped the noose tight, relaxed it out into a loop again and repeated the snapping shut.

  ‘Wait, you can’t… Stop! I will tell you. But… but truth is, I only know that she was killed,’ Carter said, ‘that’s all I know. You have my word on it.’ His words had come out fast, on top of each other but the mere act of replying seemed to lend him some temporary courage.

  It exasperated Wayland though. ‘You suggested rather more, somehow, back at that alehouse,’ he said, ‘and now you will tell me now all that you know. You may think you won’t tell me. But you will.’

  ‘I did not kill her, I swear.’

  Wayland slapped him across the face. Blood dripped from his mouth, trailing a bright path down a face that was otherwise white, all colour leached from it.

  ‘I didn’t ask you that. I’m asking you now, do you know who did kill my wife?’

  Alun could hear the danger in Wayland’s sing–song tone. He really hoped Carter could hear it. But Carter said just ‘No.’

  ‘Liar.’ Wayland slapped him again. He turned to Alun. ‘Fasten the noose,’ he said, ‘and hang it over that bar.’

  There was an iron bar, fixed into the ceiling for the purpose of holding pans. Alun hurled the rope over it and caught it by the noose. Wayland turned Carter’s head to face the noose as Alun steadied the rope and fastened the other end to a hook on the wall. The low light from the bakery furnace caused an elongated shadow of the noose to fall across Alun and the wall. Carter turned to Alun. ‘Your sister did love me,’ he said, ‘and for that you should stop him.’

  ‘That will hardly get me on to your side, even if it were true,’ said Alun, ‘considering how you left her to die.’

  ‘I did not. It wasn’t like that. It was war, it was chaos.’

  ‘And this is not telling me anything about Rebecca.’ Wayland said, raising his voice.

  ‘Think,’ said Carter, ‘think what the king’s men will do to you if you kill me.’

  Alun looked at Wayland and nodded very slightly. ‘More to the point,’ said Wayland, ‘I do concede that killing you so soon, might get in the way of you telling me what I want to know.’

  Alun let the noose drop. Wayland appeared to think a moment. ‘Well,’ he said drawing out his words, ‘my experience tells me that fire seldom lies.’ He reached for the leather bellows and pumped away until the fire came alive again. He picked an iron bar that lay amid the fire making tools and plunged it into the fire’s white centre.

  ‘Think on it. It wasn’t me that killed her.’ Carter was sobbing now.

  ‘Give me a reason, then, to believe you.’

  Carter shook, his lungs heaving. ‘God’s mercy.’

  ‘Ah, mercy is it you want?’ Wayland hissed. Carefully, almost tenderly, then, Wayland pulled the glowing iron, now white with heat and dripping molten globules, out of the fire. His eyes shone bright with purpose. He brought the iron to Carter’s chest with one hand and ripped away at his shirt with the other. Small iron shards hissed down into the water.

  A sudden rustling broke the spell. Wayland’s son crept into the room. ‘What are you doing, Father?’

  Wayland paused. It took a moment before he realised what had happened. The boy had actually spoken.

  ‘Jonathan,’ said Wayland, ‘do you know this man? From… from before the siege?’

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘You’ve never seen him … near your mam? Or anywhere?’

  Another shake of the head.

  ‘That’s not him?’ Wayland asked again but he knew now that it was not.

  Not him? Then who? Wayland felt his mind clouding with uncertainty. He wanted to quiz the boy further, but some instinct told him that now was not the right time. He turned to Alun.

  ‘It’s all right Jonathan,’ Alun said, taking the lead, ‘we’re just talking to Mr Carter. He’s going in a minute. Go check the horses and wait for us in the stables.’

  The boy left Wayland stood a moment in silence before reaching again for the iron.

  ‘All right, stop, I’ll tell you what I know,’ said Carter. ‘but just so that we all understand, neither of you will talk about me to Sir Charles Lucas nor any of his men. And I’ll not mention you. We shall never speak in this way again. Put the iron away.’

  It was clear that Carter’s confidence was returning but Wayland slid the iron back into the furnace anyway. Carter took a deep breath and drew his shirt closed again cross his chest, pushing the ends back under his belt. He turned to Alun. ‘And you, you remember, the same goes for you. I’ve told you all I know about Agnes.’

  Alun opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.

  ‘As for Rebecca, Wayland, you were mostly right when you guessed first time. I was drunk in that alehouse and I was playing you. All I do know is what I heard in another alehouse…’ catching a look on Alun’s face, he paused, then said ‘yes, I do drink too much. You might drink too much if you’d seen the things I’ve seen.’

  Alun looked down at the floor.

  ‘What I heard,’ Carter continued, ‘and you may make of it what you will, what I heard was that your wife was killed twice. And the boy saw it. That’s all I heard.’ With that, Carter strode off towards the bakery doors. He paused again. ‘I don’t know why I’m saying this, after what you just threatened me with – but if the boy saw it, and that killer ever finds him again, he could be in danger.’

  He left. Wayland and Alun looked at each other. ‘Killed twice? What on God’s earth does that mean?’ Wayland asked.

  ‘Maybe nothing,’ said Alun, ‘the man’s a drunkard.’

  Wayland thought a moment. �
�Yes, there is that – though I doubt he’s drunk right now.’ he said.

  32.

  The more Wayland considered Carter’s words, the more he fumed. ‘What in hell’s name did he mean?’ he asked and kept repeating, ‘Killed twice. It makes no sense!’

  ‘No, that it doesn’t,’ said Alan, ‘but before the boy gets back, you need to calm down.’

  ‘Calm down! Calm down! But –’

  ‘Think it through, man. You saw the boy reject the idea of Carter as the killer. Did you watch him closely? All right, he was not actually talking. But, first thing, he indicated clearly as saying that Carter’s not the killer. So let us forget about him. My second point is: it seems certain, though, that he – Jonathan that is – did see what happened to Rebecca. And now listen to me. My next point is that I think he’s close to breaking his silence. Happen he can tell you something useful and happen he will tell you. But I tell you now, he’ll stay clammed up if you go at him all fired up as you are.’

  Wayland thumped his fist on to the wooden table.

  ‘I mean it – calm your mood, your voice and the like.’ Alun said, with more than a note of exasperation in his voice.

  ‘Oh, God help me!’ said Wayland. But he sat down.

  Alun poured some cold water into a jar and handed it to Wayland. ‘Settle yourself now,’ he said. Wayland drank the water and they waited then, in silence, for Jonathan’s return. Wayland had time to reflect on Alun’s advice. Rebecca’s words came back to him too, things she used to say about how sometimes he was too fierce, too abrupt with the boy. When Jonathan finally walked back in, Wayland took a deep breath and focused hard on keeping his voice steady and low.

  ‘How were the horses?’ he asked.

  Jonathan stared at him and Wayland immediately feared that the boy would remain silent. ‘The horses? Are they all right?’ he asked again.