Wayland's Revenge

by Lesley Lodge

  That the penalty for High Treason was severe was a fact well known by all, throughout England. Within living memory, the so–called Gunpowder Plot had led to the death and sustained mutilation of its chief plotter. Since then, though, Parliament had decreed an official end to torture because Parliament of course regarded itself as so much more merciful than the King’s regime had ever been. Fairfax, too, liked to regard himself as a humane man, even a progressive one. Besides, these traitors were knights of the realm, not rabid Catholic spies. A firing squad, then, clean, efficient and quick, would be both appropriate and sufficient. He decided though that he would not, at this stage, inform his prisoners about any aspects of punishment. Let them stew in doubt, fear and the cruel delusion of hope.

  As Fairfax had expected, discussion on the case in the council of war was short. One of his generals did advocate a more lenient approach. Another, General Ireton, spoke vehemently in favour of a death penalty. Fairfax made a show of hesitation, hoping to appear undecided. He soon gave up any pretence, though, that he could actually come down on the side of mercy. The verdict went his way, but its implementation suffered a couple of setbacks. Farre was still missing and Fairfax was further thwarted in his pursuit of revenge by the discovery that a second prisoner, Sir Bernard Gascoigne, was Italian and so must not be executed for fear of upsetting a foreign power. As soon as the decision in favour of the death penalty had been agreed, Fairfax summoned and sent off one of his colonels to the King’s Head inn with orders to march the remaining two prisoners direct to the castle and from there, only a short time afterwards, to their place of execution.

  42.

  Further along the way, after Wayland’s little party had finally finished passing the long straggling line of prisoners, they came to Fairfax’s infantry, marching in a more orderly fashion in pairs though slowly, limited as they were to the pace of those carrying supplies. Wayland wondered idly if he might recognise any of his former fellow soldiers from the earlier war. Sure enough, he did see one: Jeb, a man with whom he had been billeted during a long wait outside some town in the west of the country. They had not really hit it off then. Jeb had liked playing pranks on his fellows and was talkative. Wayland of course was not. Wayland jerked his head away before they drew level and Jeb failed to notice him. Wayland scanned the long column ahead. His eyes picked out a kink in the line and he kept them focused on that as they very slowly progressed along the line. Alice was chatting away with Alun and Wayland felt more than a pang of envy at the easiness of their discourse. He looked back at the kink in the otherwise straight line of soldier and then over at Jonathan. The lad seemed to know immediately that his father had spotted something.

  ‘What is it Father?’ he asked. Then he too saw the irregular bulge ahead. His young eyes were keener than Wayland’s. ‘It’s a horse,’ he said, ‘no, wait – it’s two horses. No, it’s four horses.’

  They kept watching until they drew near. Jonathan realised it first. ‘Father, it’s them! Our horses!’

  ‘You’re imagining that, because you want it to be them,’ Wayland replied, but he saw that the profiles of the horses were familiar and he found himself doubting his own words even as he said them. By the time they were some fifty steps away there could be no doubt that the middle two horses were theirs. Wayland immediately thought of the danger of the situation. Jonathan would want to claim the horses. Any hint of an accusation of theft could result in real trouble for all of them and anyway there was certain to be some rule or law governing booty in times of war. He warned the boy not to say anything – though the irony of such a command struck him even as he worried about the situation.

  They all watched keenly as they slowly advanced on the horses. As they approached, it became clear that the one lone soldier riding was having problems leading the other three horses. His own horse was dancing sideways and pulling at the bit with impatience. The other three horses were considerably thinner, lethargic and unwilling to walk on. The soldier jerked their ropes repeatedly, cursing them loudly each time.

  Wayland fumbled through his pack of belongings. He turned to Alun.

  ‘Have you any money? Any at all, any stash you’ve not mentioned?’ he hissed.

  ‘Why? What’s up?’ Alun asked but he delved into his breeches nevertheless and reached out several coins.

  Alice looked at Wayland. She saw the intensity in his face. ‘I have some,’ she said, a little shame–faced, as she had not declared it earlier, ‘I was saving it for… never mind, here, take it.’

  Wayland looked at it. It was a surprisingly large amount. He hesitated. He looked over at Jonathan. The boy’s face, shining with excitement, made up his mind. He reached for Alice’s hand and he looked her straight in the eyes. ‘I will pay you back,’ he said, ‘it may take time but I swear it.’

  She nodded. ‘I know.’

  Wayland took a deep breath. This was going to be difficult. He sped up. He was about ten yards from the horses when there was a yell. ‘Wayland! Is that you? What in God’s name are you doing here? We heard you went back to your smithy – and a quiet life with the wife!’ The shouted call came from a soldier nearby. The man broke ranks, came up to Wayland and slapped him on the back.

  Wayland winced at the mention of his wife but quickly adjusted his expression, recognising the man and realising that this could maybe work to his advantage. ‘Edmund! Long time since I set eyes on you. I’ve been trapped in that accursed town. More than half–starved we were.’

  ‘There’s always room for one more in the model army – if you’re tempted. I can put in a word for you. Always willing to help an old comrade,’ the soldier replied with a broad smile.

  ‘I think not,’ said Wayland, ‘but tell me, what do you know of those horses?’

  ‘Them? Oh, yes, that was strange enough. Taz – or Dutchie, as we call him – found them wandering about near our trench. To be truthful with you, he’s not a great horseman and he doesn’t know how to handle them or what to do with them. But he’s damned if he’ll let them go again. Thinks he can sell them.’

  ‘See, the thing is,’ Wayland said, ‘the thing is, that two of them look like the two we lost during the siege. And, well, whether they are or no, I’d like to buy them.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll put in a word for you, introduce you, like. Don’t worry about the Dutch thing. He speaks English well enough now.’ He pushed his way forward and Wayland fidgeted as he watched the two men talk. Then he noticed that his old horse was saddled with his saddle – and the saddlebag was still attached. He went over to the three horses. Brownie, his own horse, snickered with recognition. Edmund had clearly explained matters to Taz. The Dutchman looked interested. ‘To tell the truth, these horses are becoming a big pain,’ he said, ‘being as they are so thin and poor. But my orders, see, are to bring them whether they will or no. The army needs to make up for losses in the siege and it may be some needy soul might buy them when we reach town.’

  Wayland looked back at Edmund. From the way Edmund winked at him, Wayland figured that the “orders” were likely no more than a ruse to up the price.

  ‘Happen I could help you with that,’ Wayland said, ‘buy ‘em now, sooner rather than later.’

  Taz looked unconvinced.

  ‘What would you take for those two?’ Wayland asked, pointing out his two.

  ‘No.’ replied Taz.

  ‘No? But you have to sell them anyway.’

  ‘One stupid horse is as bad and near as much work as three stupid horses,’ Taz said, spitting into the dirt.

  Wayland, realising what the man wanted, sighed. ‘Oh, all right then,’ he said, ‘how much would you take for the three?’

  They bartered a while. Wayland had to remind Taz how far away the next big town was and how much work towing the three would likely be. He pointed to the man’s hands, already chafed raw from pulling on the ropes. But Taz was a man who knew a ke
en buyer when he saw one. He named a price he said was a final figure. Wayland’s money, taken with that from both Alun and Alice fell short of the amount. Wayland went to undo his pack of belongings. He pulled out a couple of blacksmithing tools and showed them to the man. ‘Well,’ said Taz, ‘I suppose they might sell or come in useful.’

  Taz pulled Edmund aside and they whispered a while. As far as Wayland could tell, Taz was seeking assurances from Edmund that in selling to Wayland he would run no risk of being accused of assisting an enemy by selling him horses. He came back to Wayland. ‘Done.’ he said. Just then, they noticed in the distance what looked like an officer on horseback coming in their direction. Money, tools and horses changed hands in an instant and Wayland muttered his hurried thanks to Edmund. He led the horses away, over to the others. Jonathan of course was overjoyed. He scrambled up on to Runaway Tom, bareback. Wayland ran his hand down the legs of all three horses. Satisfied there were no injuries, he went to lift Alice on to Brownie. There was some flouncing of skirt and petticoat as she struggled to sit aside the horse. It was her first time on horseback and Wayland had to show her how to hold the reins and grab on to the saddle if need be. ‘I know it’s not ladylike,’ he said with a grin, ‘but what I am sure of is that it beats walking.’

  ‘That it does, for certain,’ said Alun, ‘and you can tell that boy I’ll be looking to have my turn on the old runaway before too many miles.’

  The third horse was so thin and scraggy he didn’t dare put a rider on its back. As they parted way from the army, the little group felt that things were finally looking up. Hope, though, was tinged with more than a little apprehension as they thought of the long journey ahead. Wayland wondered just what they would find on their return.

  43.

  If Fairfax had thought about it at all beforehand, he would have expected the completion of his revenge by means of the executions of Lisle and Lucas to give him some satisfaction. He did conceive of the deed as sending a clear signal to all, Royalists and Parliamentarians alike, that the betrayal of one’s word represented treason and deserved the highest penalty. What he could not possibly have foreseen, however, was that by their brave and outspoken approaches to death both Lucas and Lisle would achieve a kind of immortality, one that fired the people’s imagination and sent a very different message: one of courage and heroism. That message was to spread far beyond Colchester and Essex.

  Sir Charles Lucas made a poignant speech before his executioners. First, he justified all his actions by reference to his loyalty to the King, a higher duty, as he saw it and the right way for his actions. He asked God to forgive the firing squad. He then stood tall, his face seemingly untroubled, ripped open his own doublet and challenged the firing squad with a roar: ‘Now, rebels, do your worst!’ The soldiers responded by discharging their muskets and he fell down dead.

  By this time it was late in the day and darkening but the executioners would brook no delay. Sir George Lisle was brought forthwith to the same place of execution. Seeing the lifeless body of his fellow knight and friend Lucas before him, he knelt to kiss him before making his own impassioned justification of both his own actions and those of Lucas in resisting the siege. His generosity went one stage further than that shown by Lucas: he handed over a gold piece to the firing squad. He invited them to move closer whereupon one soldier replied, ‘I’ll warrant ye, sir, we’ll hit you.’

  Smiling, Lisle retorted ‘I have been nearer you, friend, when you missed me,’ before adding ‘now then, rebels and traitors, do your worst.’ His final words too were met with a hail of fire and his death.

  Such obvious confidence and bravery on the part of both Lucas and Lisle in the face of death made a deep impression not only on those present but also on those who heard of it afterwards. And a great many people did hear of it, for ballads were rapidly composed, printed and widely distributed.

  44.

  The journey to Wayland’s home territory was a long, hard slog but actually fairly uneventful. They reached Alun’s village first, at about noon. Alun was riding on ahead, keen to be home again after all that had happened. The others hung back, with the intension of letting Alun be the first to greet his wife. As they approached his house, though, Alun raised his right arm, a silent signal to the others to stop. They pulled up the horses and listened. Alun walked back towards them.

  ‘I can hear talking,’ he hissed, ‘and it sounds like it might be a man. Though I’m not sure.’ His face was drained of all colour as his mind whirred with possible reasons for some man to be in his house.

  They noticed then that there was a pony tied to a post by the cottage door.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ said Wayland, ‘see what’s up. You stay with Alice and the boy.’

  He dismounted, handing over his reins to Jonathan and strode firmly but silently up to the door. He did knock but he opened the door at the same time. Rosie May, Alun’s wife, called out straightaway. ‘Wayland! You’re back.’ She flung her arms round him, much to his surprise. He looked round the room, but he could see no sign of any man.

  ‘And Alun?’ she asked, ‘Where is he… or has he…’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Tell me!’

  Wayland went to the window to wave Alun over, but he hesitated. He lowered his voice. ‘Do you not have company? I heard a man’s voice.’

  ‘What? Oh, that’s just Rees,’ she said. She saw his bewilderment. ‘He’s grown. His voice has changed as boys’ voices do.’

  ‘Rees? Thank God but how…’ he stopped, realising that of course Rosie May was still desperate for news of her husband. This time he did beckon at the door and Alun, Alice and Jonathan came over, leaving their horses tethered to the railing outside the cottage. Alun embraced his wife but his stiff arms told Wayland that he was still unsure.

  ‘You must tell all about it, how you’re here, what kept you…’ her words came out in a rush until she saw how stunned Alun still was. ‘I’ll get some beers.’ said Rosie May, pulling out jugs, ‘Boy, come see.’

  ‘Boy?’ Alun muttered.

  A tall but skinny youth walked into the kitchen and stood awkwardly. ‘Rees came by a week ago,’ Rosie May told them, ‘he brought news,’ she put her hand on Alun’s arm. ‘I’m sorry, love, but Agnes is dead and…’

  ‘I know,’ said Alun, ‘at least, that is, I believed so. But how does he know? And come to that, where has he been these past years?’

  ‘My mam and… and that man she was with after she left my father, well they took me everywhere with them. We – Mam and I – we followed the army all over. It was difficult but sometimes it was exciting. Until that last battle, the one at Naseby it was,’ said Rees, turning to face Alun. ‘Mam looked out for me and as much as I could, I looked out for her. But it wasn’t enough… I was only twelve then… and when the King’s side was defeated and we knew that Fairfax’s army was coming, well, she told me to go.’ Tears fell down his face. ‘And so, so… well, so I did. She said they would kill me. She thought she would be all right, being a woman and all. She was ready and willing to help with the wounded regardless of which side they fought on. She saw it as her duty – she was very strong about that.’

  ‘If you were at Naseby,’ Wayland asked, ‘that says it all. We understand. We have heard it from others. You need not say it. And from what we’ve been told, no–one could have stopped the blood–letting.’

  They sat down and Alun explained who Alice was and he started to tell his wife something – though not by any means everything – of the siege of Colchester, Nehemiah, and the aftermath of the Royalist surrender. They drank a few more beers with some bread and mutton. Rosie May started to bring them up to date with the village news, but she could tell it was not the right time for that. Wayland asked about his own village and was reassured to learn that as far as she knew, his smithy was still standing. The beer, the bread and the warmth in Alun’s kitchen combined to set him into a contented reverie. While the
others talked on, animated, Wayland thought about the runaway horse. Knowing it had been Nehemiah’s horse explained a lot about its nervous and flighty behavior and its need to bond with Jonathan. He wanted to keep the horse but knew the men who had found the horse had some rights to claim the horse, according to custom. He reasoned, though, that maybe they would accept the third horse, maybe with a small payment, instead. What he had to figure out now was how to put enough money aside for that. If work picked up when he got his blacksmithing trade running again, he would probably soon have most of what would be needed. Jonathan was of an age now where he could be useful with a horse. He could bring in some money taking messages and the like to nearby villages.