The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1)

by D. W. Bradbridge

  Mrs Padgett pursed her lips in annoyance, as she was wont to do on occasions when her mothering ways failed to achieve their intended aim. She said nothing, but I could see she was struggling to hold her counsel, so I relented.

  “The fact is, I cannot see where a wife will come from,” I said. “I simply have not found the right person.”

  This was, at least, the truth, but it was meat and drink to Mrs Padgett, who jumped on my lame response like a hungry dog on a bone. “Those are the words of a man whose head is full of bees,” she exclaimed, with a vehemence that caught me off guard, adding “if I may be so bold,” as an afterthought.

  “And how do you come to that conclusion, pray?”

  Mrs Padgett’s cheeks reddened as she warmed to her task. “You need to free yourself from the past. It is ten years since you saw Alice Bickerton. She is long since married and settled in Shrewsbury with a family of her own. You must forget her before your obsession with her ruins your life.”

  It’s funny how women often have the knack of getting right to the nub of the problem. Mrs Padgett spoke the truth, although I was loath to admit it. Alice Bickerton had been the love of my life and the fact that I had lost her still rankled, even though it was nearly a decade ago. I knew that I would have to pull myself together if I were to avoid becoming a middle-aged bachelor, but it was not easy. I could not rid myself of the hope, deep within me, that Alice would one day come back, and things would be as they once were.

  I had known Alice Bickerton since I was a small child. Our respective fathers, both being farmers, were neighbours and friends. We occupied Greenbank Farm, which lay in the centre of Barthomley, next to St Bertoline’s church and opposite the village’s only inn, The White Lion. John Bickerton’s farm, Stony Cross, was half a mile up the hill on Audley Road. As youngsters, Alice and I had been schooled together by the village rector, Reverend Fowler, and in our spare time, being the same age, we had played in the fields together too. Even as we grew older and developed groups of friends of our own genders, we saw each other regularly.

  Neither of us could remember exactly when it was, but sometime during that difficult year of 1631, when the country was beset with harvest failures, I noticed something different about Alice. Perhaps it was something in the way her blonde ringlets fell across her face, or the way she smiled, revealing her slightly crooked front teeth. It could even have been something to do with the way she said my name – as a small child she had been unable to pronounce my name properly and had called me ‘Danull’, a form of address she had kept ever since. Whatever it was, one day during that summer, everything changed and Alice was no longer just a friend.

  The feeling, it turned out, was mutual, and we would have married if we had been allowed, but John Bickerton told me to sort out my apprenticeship first and to come back when I was in a position to support his daughter. And so I was packed off to Nantwich to work in Edward Swindell’s wich house.

  Alice said she would wait, and every other weekend for three years I would return home to Barthomley where we would make plans for when we would eventually be united. But then, one day in August 1634, I returned home and Alice wasn’t there. At first, people would not say what had happened, but I knew something was wrong, and eventually it was the Reverend Fowler who told me. Alice had fallen in love and eloped with the owner of a printer’s workshop called Hugh Furnival. I was devastated. How could it be that we were as good as betrothed one moment and separated the next? I struggled to comprehend what there was about this man that had brought Alice to betray me in this manner.

  There had been a letter, but I could only bring myself to read the first few lines. I tore it up and threw it down the well.

  Furnival was also from Barthomley, but he was seven years older than me. Being so many years his junior, my dealings with him were scant, but I recalled him as a thin, weasely man with a prominent forehead and straight hair as black as coal, which hung strangely forward over his cheekbones. My brother George, who had been a burly youth, remembered him better, having beaten him up in an argument over a spinning top, despite being four years younger.

  Hugh had left Barthomley when I was still small and had gone to London to take up his apprenticeship. There he had learned his trade and become active in the production of newsletters and pamphlets, largely espousing arguments of a puritan persuasion. He had made something of a name for himself, and perhaps it was that and the lure of the capital which drew Alice to him. I did not expect to find out, though, for since the letter, I had never seen Alice again.

  I eventually learned, through my parents’ friendship with the Bickertons, that Hugh and Alice had married and now had three children. Furnival himself had continued to be successful as a printer and had eventually moved to Shrewsbury, where he had established a printing press, the only one in that part of England. Occasionally, I caught sight of his pro-parliamentary pamphlets in the taverns, but I did not trouble myself to read them in detail, not wishing to be reminded of what I had lost.

  As for other women, there had been one or two liaisons but nothing serious. Those relationships I did have broke down when I realised that the kind of feeling I had for Alice was absent. This, however, was not a subject Mrs Padgett needed to concern herself with. She was, after all, a servant in my household and she occasionally needed to be reminded of this. Placing my tankard on the table, I drew myself up to my full height and looked my housekeeper squarely in the eye.

  “Mrs Padgett. You always have my best interests at heart, and I thank you for that. But I am a grown man and I do not need advice on whom or when I should marry,” I said. “And as for Mrs Furnival,” I continued, deliberately using Alice’s married name, “she is, as you say, out of my life and, as I see no reason for her to make an appearance in Nantwich, I fully expect her to be perpetually out of my mind.”

  Satisfied that I had stated my point and reasserted my authority in my own household, I took a mouthful of beer and let it swill around in my mouth before swallowing. Mrs Padgett said nothing, but as I looked up from my beer, I saw that she was smiling.

  5

  Nantwich – Sunday, December 10, 1643

  Sunday morning dawned bright and fresh, although the air was still freezing cold and the snow on the paths had turned to ice. Thanks, in no small part, to my exertions the previous day, I had slept well, and so it was with renewed vigour that I made my way through the square, my boots crunching on the frozen cobbles.

  Having made little progress the previous day, I had decided it was time that I spoke to William Tench’s widow. I was loath to disturb her on the Lord’s Day, but I felt the need to get what I anticipated would be one of the more unpleasant parts of my investigation over with the utmost expediency. With that in mind, I stuffed the crimson scarf found on Tench’s body inside my cloak and set off to find her immediately after breakfast, hoping to do so before the first churchgoers started to descend on St Mary’s for the morning service.

  I headed off down Hospital Street, the main thoroughfare, which led more or less due east out of Nantwich. Mrs Tench, whose first name, I had learned, was Marion, lived at the far end of the street in a small cottage that she and her husband had rented from her employer, Randle Church, whose own magnificent half-timbered mansion lay only a few yards away.

  A knock on the door of the cottage resulted in the appearance of an ageing couple dressed in workers’ clothing, who I took to be the parents of either Tench or his widow. Behind them, I caught the sight of Tench’s body, laid out in the front room, ready for burial. The father, a balding man with an unkempt beard, appeared to recognise me.

  “We’ve been expecting you Master Cheswis,” he said. “You’ll be after Marion, I imagine? You’ll find her over at the house with Mr Randle.”

  I nodded my thanks and, not wishing to impose on their grief, walked the few extra yards to the end of the street.

  Church’s Mansion was a fine, moated residence, located on the right-hand side of Hospital Street, just b
efore the earthworks, which ran in a broad curve round the back of the house and its ample gardens. The building’s striking black and white gables faced the street and seemed even more imposing due to the overhanging first floor, which seemed to reach over and engulf anyone who approached the front door.

  The mansion, among the grandest of the houses belonging to Nantwich’s merchant families, had been built in 1577 by Randle Church’s parents, Richard and Margery, and it was their faces, engraved either side of the oaken front door, which greeted me as I entered the porch and rang the bell.

  At first there was no response, but eventually I heard the sound of shuffling feet, and the door was opened by an ancient servant, who eyed me suspiciously.

  “My name is Constable Cheswis. I would speak with Mistress Tench,” I said. “I understand she is here with Mr Church.”

  “You’d better wait in the hallway a moment,” came the gruff response. I stepped inside the oak-panelled vestibule and watched as the servant shuffled off towards what I assumed must be the drawing-room. My attention was drawn by the sound of raised voices, which seemed to be emanating from behind the door and which ceased as soon as the servant opened it. After a couple of minutes, the servant reappeared and I was ushered in.

  The room’s main feature was a large brick fireplace, surrounded by intricately carved oak panelling. A log fire glowed in the hearth. Facing it were two oak armchairs next to a low table. It took me a second or two to accustom myself to the light, but once I did so, I noticed a slim, dark-haired woman wearing a red and black jacket standing next to the window to the right of the fireplace. She looked up at me, and I saw that her face was streaked with tears. I was about to address her when I heard a voice emanate from behind one of the armchairs.

  “So, Mr Cheswis. You would disturb a poor widow the day after her husband’s demise?” Randle Church was now in his eighties, an old man with wispy grey hair. He may have been infirm, but his face showed an alertness that belied his age as he swung his chair around to face me. I stepped forward to help him, but he waved me away with a brush of his hand.

  “I’m sorry for the disturbance, sir,” I said, “but you know it is my duty as a constable to seek out the perpetrator of this crime. I understand the sensitivity, and I will take care not to impose on either your or Mrs Tench’s time more than is necessary.”

  Church grunted in reluctant acquiescence and motioned for me to continue. I turned to Mrs Tench, who cast a sullen glance in Church’s direction.

  “I am very sorry about the loss of your husband,” I began, noting with interest the strained atmosphere in the room.

  The poor widow dabbed her eyes with her kerchief and made to sit down in the other armchair. “I thank you for your sympathy and concern, constable,” she replied. “Life will be difficult without my husband, especially with a young family to take care of. However, I am grateful to Mr Church. I have my job and the cottage. Mr Church has assured me that the roof over my head is safe.”

  I ventured a glance over towards where Church was sat, but he showed no reaction.

  “I have to ask you a few questions,” I continued, “but I will try and keep it brief. Were you aware of your husband’s whereabouts on Friday evening?”

  The widow shook her head. “I don’t ask. I’ve learned not to. He is out most nights.”

  “I know he was in The White Swan Tavern on Welsh Row at some time during the evening. Is there any reason why he would be over in that part of town?”

  “I have no idea, constable.”

  “He was observed arguing with the brine worker, John Davenport. Is there any reason you know of why this would be so?” At this question, I noticed a slight tightening of Mrs Tench’s lips. She then uttered what I thought was a rather strange response.

  “I know of no such thing,” she said, “but you can be sure that if William had business with Davenport, my family will take care of it.”

  I must admit to being slightly taken aback, for I didn’t know what to make of Mrs Tench’s words, but I continued with my line of questioning nevertheless.

  “Did your husband, to your knowledge, have any enemies who might have wished him harm?” I asked.

  “He spends most evenings in the tavern,” came the reply. ”I dare say he may have got into arguments from time to time, but I am not aware of any specific grievance held against him.”

  “He appears to have had a reputation for visiting different taverns and asking awkward questions. What were his politics, would you say?” At this point, Randle Church made to intervene, but Mrs Tench was too quick for him and answered anyway.

  “I know nothing about that,” she said. “I keep well away from his private business.”

  I was not convinced that Mrs Tench was being entirely truthful with me, but I could see that pursuing this line of enquiry any further was unlikely to be successful.

  “Then I will leave you in peace,” I said. “Please let me know if you think of anything which might be relevant.” For the first time since I had entered the room, Marion Tench smiled.

  “I certainly shall,” she said, hesitating a moment before adding, “William was a good man, Master Cheswis, a good husband. He did what he thought was right.”

  I nodded and was about to take my leave, when a final thought struck me. I put my hand inside my cloak and pulled out the crimson scarf.

  “Do either of you recognise this?” I asked, taking care to watch both Church and Mrs Tench attentively. For a brief moment, I thought I saw a flash of recognition in Randle Church’s eyes, which flicked almost imperceptibly to Mrs Tench, but it was only for a second, and he quickly recovered his composure. I turned to Mrs Tench, who was unmoved.

  “Where did you get that from?” asked Church, evenly.

  “Do you recognise it?” I responded, answering a question with a question.

  “No, I was just curious.”

  “It was found around the neck of William Tench,” I said, fingering the scarf’s gold-embroidered border. “The point is, it’s rather ornate, is it not? Not just a run-of-the-mill scarf that any royalist officer would wear.”

  “It is indeed,” said Church, “but I’m afraid I can’t help you identify to whom it belongs.”

  “No, sir,” I said, “but please be sure to let me know if anything comes up.” And with that, I made a tactical retreat and left Church and Mrs Tench to finish their argument.

  I must admit to having been somewhat discomfited by my audience with Randle Church, which had raised more questions than it had solved. What had Church and Marion Tench been arguing about before I entered the room, and why was Church so protective of his servant? More importantly, what was the connection between Church and the crimson scarf? I was so lost in thought, as I strolled back into town behind the first of the churchgoers, that I failed to notice the two figures stood by the entrance to The Lamb as I arrived at the top end of Hospital Street.

  “Master Cheswis, a word with you, if I may.”

  I shook myself free of my thoughts and realised I was in the presence of Colonel George Booth, the garrison commander. With him, and displaying his customary impenetrable countenance, was Major Lothian. Both men were dressed for church and had positioned themselves by the earthen walls that had been raised to protect Nantwich’s second-largest coaching house from royalist artillery. In that position, they were able to greet anyone approaching the square from Hospital Street or Pillory Street.

  Colonel Booth was a young man, barely twenty-one years of age, but as the grandson of Sir George Booth, Baronet Delamere of Dunham Massey, he had risen quickly to his position of authority. Clean-shaven, save for a small moustache which caressed his upper lip, he was of athletic build and possessed a long mane of light brown curls, which fell over his shoulders. Those who had an interest in such matters said that he had spent the years before the outbreak of war in France after quarrelling with his grandfather over his marriage to the daughter of the Earl of Lincoln. However, on the outbreak of war, he had
returned to England and fought under Sir William Brereton during his advance into North Wales. Now, with Sir William again on the march, he had been placed in charge of the garrison in Nantwich. He was the very epitome of the young, ambitious officer, but he lacked one thing – experience – and this was provided by the battle-hardened scot who stood by his side.

  “Good morning, Colonel,” I said, acknowledging Booth’s greeting. “How can I be of service?”

  “Major Lothian has advised me of the details of yesterday’s unfortunate incident at Welsh Row End...”

  “You mean the murder of the tanner, William Tench?”

  “Indeed. It is not my wont to meddle in civilian matters, but I am given to understand that there are some circumstances surrounding the man’s death that may be of relevance to the military.”

  “I’m not sure, sir,” I replied. “I think, at this stage, any assumption would be merely a matter of speculation. I take it you are referring to the scarf that was recovered from Mr Tench’s body?”

  “I am indeed,” affirmed Booth. “You have no doubt heard the same rumours as me about Mr Tench’s activities. I would like to discuss your findings with you.”

  “Well, I think that’s a little premature, sir. I’ve barely begun my investigation.”

  “I realise that,” answered the Colonel, with a smile, “and today is not the day for it. Tomorrow afternoon will do fine. I will await you in my office in The Lamb at two p.m.” And with that, Colonel Booth turned abruptly on his heels and headed off in the direction of the church, leaving me standing, open-mouthed, in astonishment.

  “Aye, and try not to be late, laddie,” added the Major, before marching off in the Colonel’s wake.

  I must admit I was more than a little irked by the arrogance of the Colonel in presuming to meddle in a non-military matter, for until a firm link could be established between Tench, the scarf, and the King’s forces, that was precisely what it was. Nonetheless, I was curious as to Booth’s interest in the matter. Pulling my cloak around my neck, I resolved to ask the Colonel a few pertinent questions the following day and headed off in the direction of the church, weaving my way through the crowds that had begun to assemble outside.