The Winter Siege
D. W. Bradbridge
First Kindle edition
© 2013 D. W. Bradbridge
Published by Valebridge Publications Ltd,
PO Box 320, Crewe, Cheshire CW2 6WY
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Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Bibliographical Notes
Glossary
Prologue
In 1643 England was in the bloody grip of civil war, parliamentarians against royalists. During the early part of the year, the King had made progress, both in the South-West and in Yorkshire. However, by the autumn, the impetus had ceased, and it had become clear that the royalists’ opportunity to capture London would be missed for a second year in succession. In September, the conflict entered a critical phase, with both sides looking further afield for reinforcements in an attempt to gain an advantage.
In Scotland, the King’s Commissioner, the Duke of Hamilton, was forced to watch helplessly as the Marquis of Argyll signed the Solemn League and Covenant, by which the Scottish Covenanters agreed to provide military aid to Parliament in exchange for money and an undertaking that Presbyterianism would be enforced in England. Hamilton, whose role it was to prevent such a treaty, realised he would be forced to flee his homeland and contemplated with trepidation the reception he would receive when he arrived at the King’s court in Oxford.
Meanwhile, the Duke of Ormond, the senior general of the royalist army in Ireland, had negotiated a cessation of arms with the Irish Catholic Confederation, allowing him to repatriate the King’s Irish Army. As autumn turned to bitter winter, four thousand of Ormond’s infantrymen landed on the Flintshire shore, and, after a brief sojourn in the royalist stronghold of Chester, where they joined forces with a thousand cavalry from Oxford under the leadership of Lord John Byron, they began to march on Nantwich, the only remaining parliamentary garrison in Cheshire.
1
Kinneil House, Bo’ness, Scotland
– October 1643
The small group of horsemen pulled up in front of the imposing sandstone towers of Kinneil House, allowing the riders to survey the scene in front of them. The gateway shimmered in the haze of the unseasonably warm October day. It was a true Saint Martin’s summer, and the horses sweated uncomfortably with the exertion of the long ride.
“So, we have arrived,” said the lead rider. In his late thirties and clean-shaven, though showing several days of stubble, he bore the upright demeanour of a seasoned veteran. His once-handsome face, now craggy and lined, betrayed his years in the field, but his blond curls fell over his shoulders like those of a younger man. Wearing the ubiquitous buff coat over his shirt and breeches, as well as bucket-top boots, he looked every inch the royalist cavalryman, though, as it happens, he was not.
His five young colleagues were of considerably more humble appearance. Clad largely in the clothes they enlisted in, they gave off an unassuming air; and intentionally so, for their aim was to remain inconspicuous in what was, for them, unknown territory. They were, in fact, not cavalrymen but dragoons, mounted infantry seconded from the Duke of Newcastle’s forces to guard and guide the older man to his destination.
One of them put his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. “It seems we are expected, sir,” he said. It was true. Behind the gateway, men rushed to and fro in frantic activity. Heads and muskets started to appear at the top of the fortified tower house. The lead rider nodded sagely.
“Then let us sample some Scottish hospitality,” he said, spurring his horse forwards.
The gateway was unguarded, but as they trotted down the wide avenue leading to the house, a servant appeared from the three-storied wing to the right of the main tower and waited for the soldiers just within the building’s musket range.
“State your business, gentlemen,” he called, in a lowland Scots accent, as they came within earshot.
“My name is Ralph Brett,” replied the cavalryman. “I would speak with the Duke of Hamilton. I come at his lordship’s request. My colleagues have accompanied me from York. They are the Duke of Newcastle’s men.”
“Wait here,” said the servant, curtly, disappearing from whence he came. Two minutes later, he reappeared from the doorway and strode over to Brett’s horse.
“Welcome to Kinneil, Colonel,” he said, holding the horse’s bridle to allow him to dismount. “Your colleagues may rest and recuperate in the main building. An ostler will take care of your horses. If you would care to follow me into the palace block, the Duke will see you now.”
Brett was led into the east wing of the building and upstairs to the first floor.
“My name is Mackie,” said the servant. “If you need anything, I am at your service. The Duke is awaiting you in the Arbour Room.” Mackie opened a door at the end of a corridor, and Brett stepped into a spacious room, overlooking the gardens and main gateway to the east of the house. The room was opulently furnished, but the first things that caught Brett’s eye were the walls, which were covered in exquisite murals depicting biblical scenes. Brett recognised some of them – Samson and Delilah, David and Bathsheba, Abraham and Isaac. They were all clearly by the same artist, and Brett wondered who it was.
“Valentine Jenkins,” announced a voice to his right, anticipating his thoughts. “One of your countrymen, I believe.”
Brett turned around to see the familiar face of the Duke of Hamilton.
“He painted the Chapel Royal at Stirling, so I’m told. My mother commissioned him to redecorate this room about twenty years ago. Wonderful, don’t you think?”
“Indeed,” said Brett, taking the hand offered to him.
“It’s good to see you again, Colonel Brett,” said the Duke, clapping him on the shoulder. “How long is it? Ten years?”
“Eleven, I believe, my Lord,” replied Brett. Despite this, the Duke did not seem to have aged much since the last time Brett saw him. His shoulder-length brown hair had, perhaps, lightened with age, but behind the neat, pointed beard were the same amiable features he remembered. Today, the Duke was resplendent in a slashed red and gold doublet, breeches, and tall boots.
“Eleven? By Jesu, indeed it is. Those are times that will live long in the memory.”
Brett nodded. In truth, the Duke�
�s campaign to the Oder and Magdeburg to support King Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden had been a disaster. Hamilton’s army of 6,000 Scots and Englishmen had been decimated by disease and starvation. Brett had fought bravely as a colonel under the Duke’s command, and, after Hamilton’s return to Britain in 1632, he had experienced five more years of bloody conflict before returning to Nantwich in 1637. He had left many a friend behind in Germany, and he still baulked at the memory.
Hamilton noticed Brett’s discomfort and changed the subject.
“I trust your journey went without incident?” he enquired, eventually.
“The ride from Nantwich to York was not the most enjoyable I have undertaken,” admitted Brett. “Avoiding patrols was not always easy, but since York, it has been much more straightforward, thanks to my Lord Newcastle’s help.”
“That is good to hear. Now, I expect you’re wondering why I have summoned you here.”
“I must admit, I have been intrigued by the nature of your request.”
“Then I will enlighten you. But first, make yourself comfortable.”
Brett was led to an oak table and two armchairs situated by the window, and Mackie arrived with two glasses of wine. Outside, the afternoon was still bright. In the middle distance, Brett could see the small but bustling port of Bo’ness and, behind it, the waters of the Firth of Forth, glinting in the sunlight.
“It’s a fine view, is it not?” said Hamilton, his hand stroking his forehead. “It’s a sight very dear to my heart, but I’m afraid it’s a sight I may not be able to enjoy for too much longer.”
“How so, sir?”
Hamilton turned round to face his guest. “I am afraid,” he said, “that events in Edinburgh have overtaken me. Last month, the Marquis of Argyll signed an agreement to support Parliament in the war in England. The Solemn League and Covenant agrees that the Covenanters will provide Parliament with an army of eighteen thousand foot and three thousand horse and artillery, in exchange for thirty thousand pounds a month and an undertaking that the King will work with the Kirk to uphold the true faith and to rid the land of popery. Although the Covenant does not actually say as much, the inference is that presbyterianism will be enforced across England, Wales, and Ireland. As the King’s Commissioner for Scotland, this is something that my brother, the Earl of Lanark, and I would have been expected to prevent.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“The truth is that ever since the Antrim Plot two years ago, it has been impossible to influence events. The King made a serious error of judgement when he wrote to Ormond in Dublin, asking him to make a truce with the Confederation and to raise an Irish army for use in Scotland. Argyll is no fool. He is a Campbell, and once he saw that the King was not only plotting to flood Scotland with papists, but with a force led by a cousin of the MacDonalds, which would be likely to attack Campbell lands in the west, events were beyond my control. It’s no surprise that the Scottish Council was furious, dominated as it is by Covenanters. The die had already been cast. The problem is that both my brother and myself will be expected to sign the Covenant.”
“Which of course, you can’t do.”
“Precisely. We will be forced to leave Scotland and go cap in hand to Oxford, where our reception is not likely to be one of conquering heroes.”
The problem facing the Count had become clear to Brett. “You are likely to be accused of treason, I think,” he said.
“Quite possibly. Not that I am unused to this accusation, of course. If the King dies with no surviving children, then I will be next in line to the Scottish throne, so I am used to people thinking the worst of me. You will recall this was also an accusation levelled at me in sixteen-thirty, when I was raising Scottish forces for the King of Sweden.”
Brett did indeed remember, clearly. Hamilton was almost extended family to the King, which was probably why he had retained his trust for so long. However, the signing of the Solemn League and Covenant would be a disaster for him and a political opportunity for his enemies. Men like the canny Argyll and the Earl of Montrose would be quick to capitalise on his misfortune. Brett took a swig of his wine and looked up at the Duke, who was still standing by the window.
“Where do I come into this, my Lord?” he asked.
“I will tell you,” said Hamilton, “but first, I must ask you a question. You are an experienced soldier and yet you have not taken a command. Why is this so?”
“When I returned to Nantwich in sixteen-thirty-seven, I’d had my bellyful of blood and gore. I got married and promised my wife that I would lead a normal life and devote it to her and our son. I took over my father’s mercers business when he died a few years ago. Nowadays, I spend my time thinking about fabrics, not warcraft.”
“That I understand,” acknowledged the Duke, “but pray tell me, are you for the King or for Parliament?”
Brett inclined his head and looked Hamilton in the eye. “I do not admit a loyalty for either side, if the truth be told,” he said. “My loyalty is to you and to my wife and family.”
Hamilton smiled inscrutably. “Then I believe you are well-suited to the task I have in mind for you,” he said. As he spoke, Brett became aware of a presence behind him, and he turned to find that Mackie had slid, unnoticed, into the room. He was carrying a leather satchel bearing the Duke’s coat of arms, which he laid on the table. Brett glanced at the satchel and raised his eyebrows.
“This,” said the Duke, “is my safeguard. You will find that the pouch holds a number of personal letters written by the King to me, in which he expounds his views on many things, but more particularly, on his desire to raise an army in Ireland to support his campaign in England. The appearance of letters such as these, exposing his Majesty’s duplicitous nature, will not be good for his standing in England.”
“But this is treason,” breathed Brett. “Why would you want the existence of such correspondence to become common knowledge?”
“Because these letters will consolidate the Covenanters’ position with Parliament and, if I am imprisoned, a swift win for Parliament might just be enough to get me freed, as would evidence of my support for the Covenant.”
“Your aim is now to support the Covenanters against the King?” asked Brett, amazed.
“No-one is more loyal to the King than I, but I must protect myself and my family. I may need the support of the Covenanters should the King lose the war.”
Brett slowly began to understand, and a grim smile broke out on his face. “And my role in this?”
“All I ask is that you take this satchel back to Nantwich and keep it in a safe place. Do nothing unless you hear word from me, at which point you may release the letters into parliamentary hands. Will you do this for me, Colonel?”
Brett grasped the satchel and looked inside. He took out the letters one by one, looked at them briefly, and then replaced them carefully. “There’s one thing I don’t understand, my Lord,” he said, eventually. “Why me...and why Nantwich?”
“There are not many men I can trust,” replied the Duke, “but you are certainly one of them. As for Nantwich, it is a parliamentary stronghold. It is under the control of Sir William Brereton, a man of radical beliefs, who is no friend of the Covenant. But there is a young colonel under his command, George Booth, a moderate and a good presbyterian, whose grandfather, Baronet Delamere, is well known to me. Colonel Booth, I understand, has been entrusted with command of the garrison, while Brereton is absent in North Wales. It is to him that the papers should be given, should it prove necessary.”
Brett seemed satisfied. “Then I will do it, my Lord. Is there anything else I should know?”
“For the sake of security, be certain that you secrete these documents in a safe place and make sure you gather a small team of trusted people around you, in case some misfortune should befall you. I presume there is no shortage of trustworthy people in Nantwich committed to the parliamentary cause?”
“I can think of one or two people,” confirmed Brett.
> “Good,” said the Duke. “I am in your debt. There is one more thing, though. Do not reveal the fact that you have the letters to Colonel Booth unless you feel you are in danger. In this case, you may tell him that you have important papers, but not the precise nature of them. For this purpose, I have written a personal letter to him carrying my seal, which you may give to him, should the need arise.”
Mackie stepped forward with a bound letter, which Brett accepted and put inside the satchel with the rest of the correspondence.
“If Booth is informed,” warned Hamilton, “I suggest you are particularly diligent as to where you hide the letters, just in case he decides to take them anyway.”
Brett nodded. “I will protect them with my life, my Lord.”
“That is good,” said Hamilton, turning to look out of the window. “The afternoon is already passing us by. You are welcome to avail yourself of my hospitality tonight. I suggest you take some time to relax and enjoy the gardens here. I look forward to your company this evening, and tomorrow you can start your journey afresh. Mackie will show you to your chamber.”
Brett was more than happy to rest up in Kinneil overnight. A good meal and an evening in the company of the Duke offered welcome respite after several days in the saddle. However, when Brett returned to his bedchamber that evening, he did not notice that the leather satchel was in a slightly different position to where it had been before dinner, and the next morning, when they set off on the long ride homewards, neither he nor the band of dragoons were aware of the lone figure on horseback who was tracking them at a discreet distance.
2
Nantwich – Saturday December 9, 1643
I was at home in my cottage in Pepper Street when the first body was found. I often mused that, had I been on duty that Saturday morning, instead of the town’s other constable, Arthur Sawyer, things might have turned out differently – and not necessarily for the better. But perhaps fate had ordained it so.
The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1) Page 1