by Lesley Lodge
‘Yours is quiet,’ Jonathan said slowly, unused to speaking, ‘but… but Runaway Tom has hurt his mouth, biting the door I reckon.’ His words came quickly now. ‘They’ve had no food a couple of days now. Father, we must do something.’
‘Runaway Tom?’ asked Alun, keen too to engage with the boy, to keep him talking.
‘I named him after Fairfax,’ the boy, ‘because we’d all like Sir Thomas Fairfax to run away.’
Wayland was in no mood to talk about horses let alone to joke and he nearly snapped. But he remembered how attached the boy was to the runaway horse and he stopped himself. ‘We’ll think of something,’ he said, ‘and if I can sort the horses, keep ‘em safe somehow, can you help me understand what happened to your mam?’
Jonathan looked up, meeting Wayland’s gaze directly for the first time in a long while. ‘It … it hurts, father, it’s difficult.’
‘I know, son, but sometimes we have to do things that hurt.’
Jonathan walked past Wayland and sat with his back to his father. ‘First we need to save Tom,’ he said slowly.
‘Can a horse be more important than your mam?’ Wayland asked.
Jonathan stared back at him. ‘No. But maybe we can still save the horses. It’s too late for Mam. I was too late. That’s my fault…’ He ran out, sobbing.
Wayland got up to go after him but Alun stopped him. ‘Leave him be for now. It’s too much, too soon.’
Wayland sat down, his chest heaving. ‘It’s too much for me,’ he said, ‘this hell of not knowing.’
‘Look, you still have a son. Don’t be losing him while you go chasing shadows. Just give him a little time. Think it through.’
Wayland was not at all sure he could.
33.
The act of shooting the horse had of course saddened Wayland but what worried him more was the realisation that this one horse would be just the beginning of a slaughter that would not end, unless the siege itself ended, until the last horse was killed and eaten. Excavations and fortifications were still being built outside, around the town walls – he could hear them night after night. So he saw no likelihood that Fairfax would back down now and simply depart from the Colchester. Nor did he see any sign that Lucas or any of the others would just capitulate. So his worries about his own horses intensified. He was not sentimental about animals, but he’d had his mare a long time, they understood each other, and she was valuable to him for his work. Then there was the matter of his son’s deep attachment to the new horse – apparently now called Tom. He really thought there was a possibility that looking after Tom could help heal Jonathan. Try as he might, though, Wayland could think of no other plan for now for saving his horses except to keep as low a profile as possible. Escape seemed to be out of the question: some brave souls had left at night, passing through gaps in the fortifications but the obvious risk – that of being shot by either side – would be considerably increased for a party of three or even just the two of them on horseback.
Matters were taken out of Wayland’s hands very soon. A call went out for all able–bodied men to take part in an expedition outside the city walls to raid for food supplies. Men experienced with animals were particularly sought after as the plan, it transpired, included the intention to bring back some cattle and sheep. Wayland was saddling up his mare preparatory to joining the line of men on horseback commandeered for the expedition when Jonathan ran into the stable area. Without even a glance at his father, he began to put a bridle on the other horse. Wayland thought of trying to stop the boy but he held back, reasoning that surely the officers in charge of the expedition would refuse to take such a young lad and so he need not risk his son’s anger being directed against him.
Wayland and his son turned up at the king’s men’s meeting point, on horseback. The officer in charge walked swiftly along the line, giving men and horses only a cursory inspection. When he got to Jonathan, the officer asked his age. Jonathan said nothing. Wayland said the boy’s age and explained that his son had a problem speaking.
The officer ignored Wayland but turned instead to Jonathan. ‘I take it you can, however, hear? And follow orders?’ he asked. Jonathan nodded and the officer continued along the line of men. ‘You!’ he shouted to the next man, ‘You’re slouching – are you sure you can ride?’ A soldier nearby was sent to replace that man and the officer moved on.
It was a night raid and as they stole out beyond the town walls, the horses trod softly in the dark. The moon was nearly full but it gave but very little light through the thick cloud cover. Wayland felt a surge of the old familiar excitement in action, despite that fact that he knew this was not his fight and his role would be, in essence, to help those he still regarded overall as the enemy, the king’s men. Jonathan rode close up behind him. It crossed Wayland’s mind then that his son might be worried. He gestured to the boy, assuring him in a low voice that the horse would pick its own way over the uneven ground and suggesting that he should focus not on looking down but on listening out for cows or sheep.
At first they found nothing of interest. Once they were clear of the walls and out into the fields, horses and men slipped and slid in the mud, tripping occasionally over lumps of shelled masonry and even canon balls. Wayland was not the only man who found it difficult to refrain from cursing when his mount suddenly stumbled. Still, he hoped to himself, perhaps this expedition could play out to their favour. At last one of the men in front spotted a pair of horns in silhouette, jerking upwards. It turned out that they had located some twenty cattle. At this point, the expedition split into two. The mounted men were to go for the cattle and the foot soldiers were to go on to seek out sheep, as sheep were more used to being herded on foot. The trick with the cattle was to surround them as quietly as possible and only then to begin to move them back towards the town walls, at walking pace. The cattle turned obediently at first.
Suddenly, one of the lead cattle, a nervous young steer, fell head first into a ditch. Instantly it set up a great bellowing. It seemed to Wayland that every other cow and steer joined in. The herd was panicking but not as one. Some darted off to the left, others to the right. The men soon abandoned all efforts to keep silent and added their shouts to the cacophony. Some started their mounts into a canter to head off particular steers making a break for it. Jonathan’s horse, confused and likely unaccustomed to herding let alone shouting, reared up. Wayland saw Jonathan thrown off into a ditch. The boy let out a high–pitched scream. He turned his own mare immediately and went to help his son.
Checking him quickly over, he found to his relief that the boy was scratched and bruised but otherwise uninjured. At first he couldn’t understand his son’s continued distress but then he saw it. Runaway Tom was living up to his new name, high–tailing it off into the distance. In what he realised later was an act of extreme foolishness – seeking a kind of solidarity perhaps, Wayland turned to his own mare and whacked her rump with the flat of his hand. She leapt into a standing gallop – chasing after Runaway Tom.
The other men had resumed control over the cattle herd and were now some way off in the distance, headed slowly back towards the town walls. Wayland pulled Jonathan to him and together they turned back in the direction those herding the sheep had gone. It took them over an hour but they did eventually catch up with them. They managed too to infiltrate this group by grabbing hold of the horns of a runaway ram and forcing it back into the herd. Wayland was careful to make the boy stay clinging tight to those horns, ensuring him an alibi for the night’s work.
It was only an hour or so before dawn when the sheep herding group and their captive sheep made it back in triumph through the town gates. Jonathan was still downcast, but Wayland whispered to him, assuring him that the Parliamentary army would likely find the horses and that in that way they would be fed and cared for – and not eaten. That was the best they could hope for them.
There was no sleep for Wayland or h
is son that night. They were obliged to help set up secure housing for the seized sheep and cattle, to make fencing to pen them in safely. The Parliamentary army bombardments started up again, regular as ever, just after dawn. They were particularly heavy that day and again all able–bodied men were called on this time to carry out urgent repairs to the town walls. This work continued on into the next night. So Wayland had to wait another whole day before an opportunity arose to speak privately with his own son. He joined the boy in the King’s Men’s stables. Jonathan was charged with mucking out the stalls though these days this was a somewhat easier task than before as even the cavalry horses were now fed so little that their droppings were far fewer. Father and son scraped away at the stable floor. Alun was leaning against the stable door, keeping a watch out for any soldiers.
Wayland tried again to reassure the boy about the fate of his beloved horse; he did his best, too, to sound hopeful that they could one day reclaim the horses, though privately he knew that to be next to impossible. To his relief, Jonathan did seem a little cheered just at the thought that the horses would at least be spared their imminent slaughter for the officers’ pot. He thought to distract him by telling him something of how cavalry horses were trained. ‘One of those,’ here he pointed at the nearest cavalry horse, ‘can leap many feet into the air bearing a fully armed man and lash out with his back feet to clear a way from enemy foot soldiers,’ he explained. Jonathan listened but his face was unchanged. Wayland stopped talking and reached out an arm to his son, realising as he did that he hadn’t embraced him since before he’d left for the army, years ago. Uneasy and unsure, he settled for a pat on Jonathan’s shoulder.
‘Jonathan, can you tell me now,’ he said, looking him straight in the eye, ‘about when your mam died?’
Jonathan shifted back against the doorframe. ‘It’s maybe best, easiest, if I don’t look directly to you,’ he said, looking away. Then he began.
‘I will tell it – I will try to tell it – from the beginning.’
He told how he’d seen the water trial. This much Wayland had more or less pieced together most of it from the little snatches he’d managed to catch from the villagers. But he breathed in sharply when Jonathan mentioned finding his mother alive on in the scrubland around the pond. ‘She was alive? She was definitely alive? No question of it?’
Jonathan nodded, his head tilted downwards.
‘Then what?’ Wayland asked, ‘Why couldn’t you save her?’
Jonathan’s shoulders heaved and he began to sob. ‘I tried, Father, God knows how I tried.’
Alun reached over the half–door and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. With his other hand he made a warning sign to Wayland to slow down, to take it easy.
Wayland realised that Alun was right. ‘It’s alright, lad,’ his said, lowering his voice, trying to sound calm, ‘just take your time, tell me what happened. Whatever it was, I’ll not be angry. I promise you. But I do need to know.’
Alun scooped some water from the horse bucket and passed it to Jonathan. Wayland twisted his hands around each other, struggling to control his impatience. Jonathan took a deep breath, paused a minute and then began to speak again.
34.
1647
Jonathan was squatting in the reeds at the pond’s edge. A ragged shriek made him look back at the platform. The mob was focusing now on the next woman. This one was much older and the boy could hear her shouting back at them. Giving as good as she got, she cursed them all roundly. The boy clamped his mouth shut, to stop himself from speaking his prayers out loud. Still hidden by the scrubby undergrowth, he began to crawl to his left, getting closer to the edge of the pond. Soon he could even make out the second woman’s face. It was old Mistress Bland. The men near his mother turned to look at this victim before reluctantly wading further into the pond to retrieve his mother’s body. The boy screwed up his eyes, searching for signs of life in her. He could see none. Carelessly, the men swung the body back and forth between them then with one big heave they let go, throwing her on to the pond’s bank, into the tall reeds and bulrushes, just out of sight. Job done, they hurried back, eager to join the crowd in baiting the next woman.
The boy scuttled fast, around the pond, bending low to avoid being seen. Reaching his mother, he dragged her deeper into the reeds, away from the water. Instinctively, he turned her on to her side. Grey water gushed out of her mouth. He grasped her by the waist, pushed her head down lower and watched as more water dribbled out. ‘Mam! Mam!’ he said. His words came out hoarse. He was desperate to pitch it loud enough to rouse her – but not so loud as to reach the mob. Time seemed to him to pass without end, but it could only have been seconds before he saw her eyes flutter, then open. She coughed up more liquid. This time it was greenish and tinged with blood. But she was alive. The boy started on the knots, working them loose and throwing aside the ties. It was a struggle as the water had acted on the knots, tightening them.
‘Mam,’ he said, when she was finally free of both the ties and the sheet, ‘Mam, we’ve got to get out of here. Now. Can you? Can you move? We have to get away before they come back for you. But we must keep down, we must crawl so they don’t see us.’
Jonathan held tight to his mother, willing her to recover sufficiently that they could escape further, much further, away. He knew it would only be a matter of time before the mob came looking for her. She was still panting and gasping, unable, it seemed to him, to speak. He remembered then a time when he’d been helping out with a friend at lambing time and one of the lambs had run off, falling into that same village pond. His friend’s father had simply waded in, picked up the lamb and turned it upside down, patting its back until water stopped falling from its mouth and it had started squealing again. He manoeuvered himself under Rebecca and half–lifted her up so that her head hung down over his shoulder. He thumped at her back from behind as best he could. It seemed to be working, after a fashion, as a green foam dripped down over him from her mouth, staining his jerkin. After a while, he propped her up against a tree trunk. ‘Mam!’ he said, ‘Can you hear me?’
He thought her eyes may have flickered and her head nodded but he wasn’t sure. It was then that he heard footsteps swishing through the reeds. He lowered Rebecca again so that she was lying down. ‘Sssh!’ He put a hand over her mouth.
‘So here you are,’ said a man’s voice. Hands swept apart the reeds and a man strode through. He stood over Rebecca and Jonathan, his eyes glinting. ‘Not quite dead,’ he said, ‘yet.’
Jonathan launched himself in front of Rebecca’s prone body. ‘Leave her alone. Haven’t you… you animals done enough?’
‘First off,’ said the man, stepping forward, ‘I’m not one of them. But that’s not the point. The answer to your question, is no. Not at all.’
His reply puzzled Jonathan for a moment – until the man took out a small curved knife. He barely saw it move but he did see clearly the blood falling across his mother’s face. A triangle of flesh fell down her cheek. He leapt forward to attack but the man flung him aside then bent down almost casually to pick up a rock from among the exposed reeds. Jonathan saw the rock coming towards him. He even heard it hit. He fell back, blood streaming down from his head across one eye. With the other eye he saw the man kick out. The foot struck him first across his throat and he found his voice was gone. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t scream. The next kick struck him in the stomach and a sharp, nauseous pain jerked Jonathan’s whole body, doubling him up. His arms and feet seemed paralysed. He fell. With his one clear eye he watched, helpless, as the man wiped his knife on some leaves. Clean again, it shone briefly, reflecting the sun, before the man twirled it rapidly in the clay, making some kind of pattern. Then he saw the man crouched over Rebecca and starting to work the knife on her body, making the same patterns. Pain, horror and disbelief swept through Jonathan bringing total blackness with it. Briefly, though, before he lost all consciousness,
he heard a manic, unholy sound. He realised it was laughter.
35.
1648
Work had dropped off for Wayland and as a consequence, of course, the number of small food packets he received in recompense had dwindled. Lucas, the other Royalist commanders and their officers were still known to have some reserves of basic supplies and certainly they still had wine – Wayland could hear them most nights, though the sounds of their conversations had been a deal more subdued these past few nights. Food was a constant worry for all of Colchester’s other inhabitants though and as is so often the way, it was the ordinary townspeople who suffered the most. Every cat and every dog had been slaughtered and eaten. Rats and mice were scarce; trapping them had become an obsession for many. Fatballs made from tallow candles and flavoured with herbs were fast becoming standard fare.
Wayland’s contact with anyone other than the military was constrained of course. The two guards watched over him most of the time and Alice’s visits were few and usually unplanned. He did, of course, know that the food supplies were desperately short in the town. But even so he was taken aback, shocked by her appearance when she came that day after an absence of over ten days. The skin on her face was grey and drawn tight across her cheekbones. He thought it looked as though it might crackle and tear if he touched it. She was wrapped up in winter attire and, although it was still a grim wet summer, he knew it wasn’t that cold that she should be shivering. He went to greet her but she simply stood, staring at him.
‘We’ve decided,’ she said, ‘we’re going out, whether Lucas will let us or no.’
‘Out? What can you mean?’
‘Through one of the gates, or one of those gaps in the ramparts, it matters not.’