by Lesley Lodge
•The town itself could be saved from destruction and pillage – but only if £14,000 was paid over in cash.
These terms represented more than a shock. To Lucas, it was beyond belief and it went against all military convention. Emotions surged and competed. First came fury. He had considered Fairfax to be an honourable opponent, hadn’t he? Why would the accursed man do this? To be a prisoner of mercy was to give oneself up to the whims of the enemy. Fear came to his mind soon after, though, as he thought for the first time of the possibility of his own execution. Death in the heat of battle was one thing. A soldier didn’t dwell on that. But the dishonour of – of what? He realized he didn’t know. Would it be a hanging even – would they dare to do that? For a man of Lucas’s rank that was unthinkable. And yet, with such open terms of surrender, what else could Fairfax be after? Next, his conscience threw a quick stab of guilt into the mix. He remembered quite sharply now his previous defeat. It had been during the earlier war against Parliament. He’d been Lord Astley’s Lieutenant General of All the Horse throughout their battle and subsequent defeat at Stow–on–the–Wold. His disappointment at having to surrender in the market place there had been bitter. Being taken prisoner, though, had seemed more of a formality. That hadn’t felt so final. He thought now of how lightly he had given his word, renouncing all intent to bear arms against Parliament ever again. He forced such thoughts away. Times had changed and surely serving his King – the King, the King by divine right – must come before any promise to men.
Later, having pushed away all such violent emotions, he found his brain, just recently so enflamed, now felt only deflated. A deep despondency was all that was left. With Norfolk, Capel and Lisle surrendering, Lucas had no other options anyway, even if he had been able to think of one. Slowly, silently, he added his signature and seal agreeing to the document of surrender. Without looking up, he pushed it into the hands of his messenger to take back to Lord Norfolk. So morose was he that at first he didn’t even hear the commotion his own men made as they made ready to open the town gate and to lift away some of the many structures so hastily erected against the siege. It was only when the messenger hurtled back in and ran to the little window beyond his desk to watch the action that Lucas’s mind snapped into its more customary, military mode. He strode over to the window and leaned out. ‘You there! Halt!’ he bellowed, ‘I command you to take away only a few of our barriers. We must not give the Parliamentary forces any good chance of a stampede. Narrower gaps will promote in them a more orderly entrance.’ He turned from the window. Lowering his voice, he added to no one in particular, ‘And fewer odds on atrocities. Only God can help us now.’
* * *
Over on the Parliamentary side of the town walls a roar went up. The officers struggled to hold their men to some kind of disciplined line. The men had now forgotten all the waiting, the weeks spent lying in stinking muddy ditches, the cold, the boredom. Their minds filled now with the elation of victory, with speculation on possible plunder and above all with a strong need to be active. They wanted to rush into the town that had denied them entry for so long. More than one man harboured too some thoughts of a personal revenge, of payback for himself and his pains. But there was only one man whose thoughts were utterly dark. That man was Nehemiah.
38.
The main Parliamentary forces leading the advance had marched towards and then through Colchester’s town gate in some semblance of order. By contrast, ragged streams of men now poured through the gaps in the fortifications made by the soldiers ahead of them. Immediately it became obvious that their progress was not fast enough for those behind and soon more structures were being smashed, broken and fired. Dense smoke began to add to an already dark sky and many officers lost sight, let alone control, of their men. The cacophony of noise became unbearable as these invaders roared, struck at any obstacles and fired their muskets randomly into the air. It was only a matter of minutes before the screams of women and children added to the raucous chaos. Wayland, watching from the empty hayloft atop of the stables, prayed that Alice remained safe, back in his room above the forge. He thought immediately of course of the boy and looked round to reassure him. But Jonathan was gone.
He scrambled down to floor level, yelling all the time for his son. He ran outside, asking people if they’d seen the boy, or indeed any boy. But no one heeded him. Every man seemed immersed in his own panic. Wayland circled the crossroads, straining his eyes down each street in turn, struggling to make sense of all the movement, to filter out from it any form that might be, that could at all possibly be Jonathan. Nothing. His chest heaving, he turned toward the bakery and ran on, hoping and praying that Jonathan would have had the sense to go to Alun.
* * *
Nehemiah and the soldiers he was with had now squeezed through the actual wall gates only to find that their way to the centre was partly blocked. Nehemiah stuck close to his group for now but kept his position towards the rear, letting the stronger ones among them struggle to move the fallen debris that narrowed their path and limited their passage through the abandoned siege blockades. When an especially large piece of fallen roofing blocked their way and looked likely to cause a significant delay, Nehemiah slipped aside into a narrow side street and picking on a small cottage, he set alight the few scrappy bits of thatch that had escaped being commandeered by the King’s men for horse food. He waited only long enough to be certain that it had caught before he rejoined the others.
The orders given to the Parliamentary soldiers were to search for and take prisoner all those who were part of the King’s command. The soldiers found it easiest in practice, of course, to assume for now that this would include any adult male who could not quickly and clearly prove himself to be not a part of that command. So the logic was that every house and building must be searched. Of course, if the searching revealed any valuables, these were not going to be ignored and, indeed, valuables were prominent in most men’s thoughts – though not in Nehemiah’s. It wasn’t long before the little group stumbled across the row of houses that had been taken over during the siege to house the higher ranks of the King’s cavalry. A rapid and vigorous search soon proved that the recent occupants had fled, leaving little behind. What they had left behind, though, included several pairs of boots. And after so many weeks spent lying in soggy ditches, no one in Nehemiah’s group was going to overlook dry boots. There followed a melee of men trying on boots and swapping boots. Only Nehemiah held back. And as he loitered in the street, his eyes caught a movement. A boy. Alone. Slipping into a single storey building. Nehemiah set off after the boy. No one would notice his absence.
Meanwhile, back in his baker’s quarters, Alun was scrabbling through a stack of iron pans, hoping to find one light enough to wield but heavy enough to serve as a crude weapon. He had his back to the door when Jonathan burst into the room. ‘Mother Mary and Jesus!’ said Alun, ‘You startled me. I thought… I thought you were one of them.’
‘One of Fairfax’s men?’ Jonathan asked, ‘Well, you’re not so very far wrong. They’re coming all right. I came to warn you. Father was too busy watching them break through. But…but what are we to do? Will they believe us? That we are not for the King?’
‘Steady on lad,’ said Alun, ‘seems you’ve a lot to say, now that you’ve learnt to talk again.’ He made an effort to smile in reassurance.
‘But you’ve not seen them,’ the boy said, the words tumbling out fast again, ‘I swear there’s murder in their eyes and they’re all fired up. Likely there’ll be little time for explanations. We should hide.’
‘Too late now,’ said a voice so quiet and calm that Alun was not completely sure he’d actually heard it. For Jonathan, though, the voice was there – and he knew he’d heard it before. The man who stepped into the bakery was Nehemiah. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘so God has rightly given you to me this time.’
‘You!’ yelled Jonathan, ‘You murdering bastard!’ He launched hi
mself toward Nehemiah.
Alun immediately took in that Nehemiah was holding a musket in one hand and had a large, curved knife at his belt. He acted quickly. Stepping between Jonathan and Nehemiah, he jumped forward. ‘Whatever it is that you want with this boy, you’ll answer to me first.’ he said. Alun stared at Nehemiah, searching the man’s face for clues to his motivation. Seizing his iron pan, he took another step towards Nehemiah. He grasped the boy’s hand to hold him back.
‘Let me go,’ Jonathan screamed, ‘you don’t realise. He’s the one who –’
This slight restraining action on Alun’s part gave Nehemiah his chance. Without warning, without taking his eyes off Jonathan, Nehemiah swung out his arm and struck Alun on the side of his head with the musket, knocking him out cold. Alun’s body sagged and he collapsed in an untidy pile on the floor. Nehemiah stepped over him, towards Jonathan.
* * *
A group of Fairfax’s men blocked Wayland’s path to the bakery. Wayland stopped short then cursed himself for a fool. With a whole army of besiegers streaming into Colchester, how could he hope to protect his son against them all? Yes, he had some battle experience. And yes, he could articulate and reason where Jonathan could not. But to come out without any kind of weapon was nothing short of foolish. He retraced his steps, back to the stable. A quick search there revealed nothing of any use as a weapon. He ran on to his smithy.
Back inside the smithy, he sorted impatiently through the pile of ironwork stacked up against the far wall, picking up pieces then hurling them to one side. There were muskets that needed fixing – useless without ammunition or powder. He picked up one of the broken pikes. It was a weapon sure enough – but too obviously so if he were caught with it. He had no desire to be seized as a soldier before he could find Jonathan. He threw it down and moved over to his collection of tools. He picked one out: a heavy, long–handled branding iron. About a foot and a half long, it was heavy enough. It would do. If challenged, he could legitimately point to it as a tool of his trade. Assuming they did ask questions first, that is. He transferred it to his left hand and hurried back out.
* * *
‘Let me go,’ repeated Jonathan screamed, ‘you’re the one who –’
‘Killed your mother.’ The quiet, steady voice took over, finishing Jonathan’s sentence, ‘Yes I am that man. And I’ll tell you something else. It pleased me some, doing it, watching her face when I cut –’ he paused to study Jonathan’s face as all colour drained from it. ‘– into her smooth, white breasts.’ he continued.
Jonathan stood there, shaking, as shock, anger and fear all vied for control of his mind. Alun was still slumped next to the ovens, blood now seeping from a gash on his head on to and across the floury white stone floor.
‘Look at me,’ said Nehemiah, ‘you could say I’ve come to bring you peace.’
‘What?’ Jonathan asked, confused.
‘What peace?’ Nehemiah smiled, ‘that’s a good question. Why, it’s the peace, I suppose, that comes with oblivion.’ Still calm and soft–voiced, he laid down the musket, drew out the knife and stepped forward. Jonathan, frozen, could only stare at him. Nehemiah slashed open Jonathan’s shirt, ripping the surface of the flesh beneath. Blood spread slowly out, making a jagged line of red against the boy’s pale skin.
* * *
Wayland slowed instinctively as he approached the bakery. Trying hard to concentrate, he tried to filter out the hullabaloo of shouting, crashing and shrieking in the town and to focus on the building before him. He thought he heard a low murmur and breathed out with relief. If that was Alun talking it was likely with Jonathan. He lowered his weapon and quietly pushed open the door. In an instant Wayland took in the scene before him: Alun bleeding on the floor, a man cutting at Jonathan. He leapt at the man, catching him a sideways blow on the shoulder and pushing him away. Jonathan stood as if frozen, the red line widening across his pale chest. ‘Get down!’ Wayland yelled at his son.
But Nehemiah was quicker. In one move he’d seized Jonathan and flung the boy’s body in front of himself. His knife was now at Jonathan’s throat.
Wayland paused. ‘Who in Hell are you?’ he asked Nehemiah, ‘He’s a just a boy. He took no part in this accursed war. What can he be to you?’
‘Ah, the father,’ Nehemiah said, ‘and also then the husband. Or rather, a man who was a husband.’
Wayland noticed then the man’s jagged half ear just as Jonathan spoke. ‘Father, he… he’s the one. The one who killed –’
A blow from the hilt of Nehemiah’s knife silenced Jonathan. His head lolled to one side, but Nehemiah still held him firmly by the neck, his knife at the ready.
‘Who?’ Wayland began. But even as he said it realisation began to course, forcing its way through his head and through – it felt – his very veins. He knew, without knowing exactly how he knew, that Rebecca’s killer was standing before him. The intense lust for revenge that he’d nursed for so long took over, the lust of his nightmares, the same lust that had ruled so many of his waking hours. A fog of red swirled in front of his eyes and he gripped hard on the branding iron.
‘I know what you’re thinking. But you’ll not do it. For I have your boy.’ Nehemiah’s words cut through the fog somehow and Wayland found his eyes focused on Jonathan’s neck. He noted the knife, he looked into Nehemiah’s eyes and he saw the man’s utter determination. He stood, stock–still. The branding iron was still behind him, still in his left hand.
‘Don’t you want to know?’ Nehemiah asked.
‘Know what? What is it you want?’
‘Know how she died. Your wife. The plump little whore.’
Wayland said nothing.
‘She did call out for you, you know,’ said Nehemiah, ‘but of course you weren’t there.’
A noise – it was half grunt, half sob – escaped from Wayland. Nehemiah tightened his grip on the knife and two more crooked lines of blood appeared, this time on Jonathan’s neck, above and below the knife’s edge.
Wayland felt paralysed as shock and horror hit him. He saw Jonathan’s neck move very slightly, his muscles stiffening, and he guessed then that the boy was conscious.
‘She survived the water trial, you see,’ Nehemiah continued, ‘but I knew she was a whore. They’re all whores, you know. They all deserve it.’
Wayland stood rigid, his mind whirling but beginning to function, to calculate. His eyes caught a tiny movement behind Nehemiah. Could Alun too be conscious now? Wayland willed with all his might that this knowledge would not show in his face. ‘So, you killed her?’ he asked, playing for time now, ‘That’s all you’re capable of is it? Killing defenceless women?’
Just then there was a crackle as some cinders toppled down in the bread oven furnace, provoking a small flare–up. Alun’s eyes were swiveling around. Wayland prayed he was taking in the situation.
‘I did,’ said Nehemiah, ‘but you’re wrong. They’re not all defenceless. Usually I enjoy a bit of fight back first.’
‘All?’ asked Wayland. He was stalling again, just trying to keep the man talking while he thought for a way to get at Nehemiah. He gripped the branding iron tighter. It was still out of Nehemiah’s range of vision. He saw Alun silently coiling one leg up. Wayland shouted to distract Nehemiah.
‘Why? In God’s name, why?’ He was yelling now at Nehemiah and he took a step forward to distract him further.
Then it all happened in an instant. Alun lashed out with his foot, catching Nehemiah at the back of knee, bringing that side of the man down. Jonathan hit out with his fist, straight up and through Nehemiah’s arm. And Wayland caught Nehemiah a blow on the shoulder with the branding iron. The knife fell to the floor and Jonathan, bleeding heavily from the arm he’d hit out with, was free. Alun, though, passed out again from the pain of his exertion.
39.
Wayland had Nehemiah now, pinned to the wall. He
glanced at Jonathan, decided he’d live and turned his attention back to Nehemiah. Now that the man was no longer armed he seemed to deflate completely. Wayland realised to his surprise that his captive had little resistance in his arms. But this was only the briefest of his thoughts. Much more intense were his thoughts of revenge. Pent up for so long, they crowded back into Wayland’s mind now and he forgot everything else – the breaking of the siege, Alun, even Jonathan. He was totally focused on the one thing. He raised up the branding iron he’d brought with him and held it over his prisoner’s head. He was tempted, very tempted, to smash it down, to beat out the man’s brains in one go. Flashes of his dream of vengeance came back to him. He realised that would be too quick. He wanted something more. It was second nature for him to think in terms of fire, of burning flesh, as he had before, with Carter. Easily holding Nehemiah against the wall with his right hand, he reached out with his left to open the bakery’s oven door. The fire inside was low but a healthy red colour. He thrust the branding iron into the furnace and held it there, counting silently as he was wont to do in the smithy when heating up horseshoes to shape them.
As soon as Wayland judged it to be ready, he pulled the iron back from the fire. He took care to pause so that Nehemiah too could admire its glowing aura. Wayland could feel its heat on his face. His nose took up the familiar smell of molten iron. He drew in his breath and spat on the iron’s end just to hear the hiss of steam. Nehemiah shrank back into the wall as far as he could. He opened his mouth to speak or scream but not a sound came out. Wayland brought the iron slowly closer and closer. He held it to the man’s cheek and watched it melt the flesh. Nehemiah screamed now, a high–pitched long and gurgling wail. Wayland held the iron steady.
‘Man, what are you doing? Stop, stop for the love of God, he’s still one of Fairfax’s men – they’ll kill us.’ Alun’s voice finally cut through to Wayland’s consciousness. He dropped the iron to the floor. With both hands, he pulled Nehemiah to the centre of the bakery. ‘Happen I should cool the poor man down, then.’ he said. There was a harsh edge to his voice, one that Alun had never heard before.