The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1)

by D. W. Bradbridge

  The Colonel was sat at a table in the centre of the room with a drink in his hand. When I entered he rose and began to pour a second cup.

  “Ah, Master Cheswis,” he said, by way of welcome. “Thank you for coming. May I offer you some sack? It’s very good.” Without waiting for a reply, he handed me the newly-filled cup. I took a grateful swig of the sweet, fortified wine and, feeling somewhat uneasy, began to wonder what was behind the over-cordial welcome.

  “Tell me,” began the Colonel. “As one of the town constables, you are officially the King’s representative in Nantwich. Do you not find this an odd state of affairs in a town that rebels against his Majesty?”

  “The irony of this is something I think about every day,” I replied, not liking the direction the conversation was heading.

  “An irony indeed, but not necessarily a conflict,” continued Booth, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. “This war is generally not a war of opposites. Wherever you go, the population has a mix of views. For example, in Nantwich, although most people support Parliament, it seems to me that many of the leading families are for the King. Are you for the King too, constable?”

  “I’m for the King and Parliament,” I answered guardedly.

  The Colonel smiled. “Good. That’s what my sources tell me. And you are aware, no doubt, that four thousand men have sailed from Ireland to join the King’s party at Chester?”

  “Everybody knows that, sir.”

  “Quite. Well let me give you a little more detail – a little more flesh on the bones, so to speak. When the first shipments of troops arrived in Mostyn and Anglesey just over three weeks ago, Sir William Brereton withdrew from his position in Flintshire. However, it seems that this might have been a mistake. Firstly, it appears there were relatively few Irish rebels among the troops. The King, I’m sure, would have loved to have accepted the aid of the rebels, but in the end he dared not accept the help of papists.

  “Next, the soldiers that did land were weary and disaffected. They hadn’t been paid and were practically walking around in rags. Our scouts tell us that if we had infiltrated their forces, we would have been able to convert many to our cause. As it was, Sir William wrote to them from Wrexham, offering to pay their arrears and stressing to them the need to fight for the true religion. However, it would appear that the message never reached the common soldier and their officers were made of sterner stuff. They simply replied that they’d gone to Ireland to fight the King’s enemies and intended to do the same here. They then marched on to Chester to recuperate, where they were paid and reclothed. In addition, more reinforcements arrived from Ireland under the command of Sir Robert Byron, the nephew of Sir Nicholas Byron, the Governor of Chester.”

  “Ah. I heard that Byron had assumed command of the forces in Chester.”

  “Yes, but that was neither Robert nor Nicholas Byron. Rather, it is Lord John Byron, brother of Robert and nephew of Nicholas, who is now in command in Chester. Lord John was also sent by the King, arriving from Oxford with a thousand horse and three hundred foot.”

  I took another mouthful of sack and waited for the Colonel to stop speaking. This was all very interesting information, but I couldn’t for the life of me fathom why Booth felt the need to entrust it to someone of my status.

  “Colonel, why are you telling me all this?” I enquired.

  Booth rose to his feet, brushing the front of his doublet where he had spilled some of his drink. “I’m merely trying to illustrate the fact that the royalist forces are gathering strength as we speak. You can be certain that once they are ready, Nantwich will be high on their list of priorities. When they arrive, we must be ready for them.”

  “And what if the town falls, sir?”

  “The town will not fall, Master Cheswis,” insisted the Colonel, with an edge to his voice. “However, Byron’s reputation is, perhaps, a source of worry to the local townsfolk. I cannot imagine they will be well-treated if the town succumbs.”

  “So how do I fit into this?” I asked, still nonplussed, unsure what Booth was trying to achieve.

  “I’m glad you asked me that,” said the Colonel, somewhat mysteriously, whereupon he strode over to the door and whispered something, inaudibly, to the guard, who promptly disappeared, returning a few moments later with a dark-haired, clean-shaven officer in his mid-twenties.

  “Good afternoon, Master Cheswis, I am Captain Draycott, sir,” said the young officer, leaving me none the wiser as to what was going on.

  The Colonel saw that I was confused and stepped in. “Draycott is the garrison quartermaster,” he explained. “I understand that you have quite a thriving cheese business. Is that so?”

  “That is correct, sir. It is my ambition to develop this business once the war is over.”

  “Quite so. At this moment, however, there is every possibility that the King’s forces may attempt to surround the town and cut off our supply lines.”

  “A siege?”

  “Exactly. So we need to get as much in the way of supplies into the town as we possibly can. Cheese is one such staple supply item. I understand that much of your product is sourced from local farmers. Would you be able to help us build up stocks in the coming days?”

  “What do you need?” I asked, turning to Draycott, who had taken a seat at the table and was poised with quill and ink pot, ready to take notes.

  “As much cheese as you can lay your hands on, Master Cheswis. When do you collect produce from your suppliers?”

  “On Fridays, generally,” I replied. “In time for the market on Saturday.”

  “And how much cheese do you normally collect?”

  “It depends on what the farmers can supply me with, but I usually bring back eight to ten cheeses for sale at the market and the same again for sale to regular customers during the week.”

  “And how much can your cart carry?”

  “About twice that amount.”

  Draycott dipped the quill in his inkwell and made a few calculations, pausing to look at the Colonel before addressing me again. “Good,” he said finally. “Please make sure the cart is full, and we’ll take the whole cartload.”

  “I can’t do that,” I said. “I need to keep some back for the market. I can’t let my customers down.”

  “Once Byron starts making his move on Nantwich, we’ll be lucky to have a market,” interjected the Colonel, with a wry smile.

  “Very well,” conceded the quartermaster, adjusting his figures accordingly. “Keep back eight cheeses for yourself and deliver the rest to our stores.”

  “Alright, Captain,” I said, draining my cup of sack. ”I’ll try my best.”

  “And another thing. Can you go out on both Thursday and Friday next week? We believe the King’s forces may well be not far off by that time, but if you stay to the east of the river you should be safe enough. We’ll provide you with a guard to make sure, though. A couple of dragoons should be sufficient.”

  And so it continued. Ten minutes later, I was in possession of an order for the following three weeks that would see my sales double during that period and provide every prospect of further business afterwards.

  “I am indebted to you, sir,” I said to Booth, once the efficient Captain Draycott had packed up his writing implements and left the room, “but you did not bring me here to ply me with drink and to buy my cheese. What can I do for you?”

  The Colonel narrowed his eyes and stared at me inscrutably for a moment, but then he threw his head back and emitted a huge guffaw. “By Jesus, you are nobody’s fool, Cheswis,” he laughed. “My compliments, you are certainly astute.” The Colonel hesitated a moment while he gathered his thoughts. “Alright,” he added, “since you ask, here it is. I’m interested in what you can find out about William Tench.”

  “Why?”

  “I am well aware that the King does have some support in this town,” said the Colonel. “It is vital that I know which of these people is passive in their support and which are actively working again
st us. I am advised Tench may have been a royalist scout,” he added.” I would like to find out who could have wanted him dead and why.”

  “At this stage, I’m not sure-” I began, but Booth raised his hand to silence me.

  “Take a look at this,” he said, opening the drawer of his desk and producing three sheets of paper, which he laid out in front of me. I peered over the desk and realised I was being shown three handwritten documents, each containing a separate list of names.

  “You will recall that last spring a remonstrance was circulated throughout Cheshire to ascertain who among the population of the county was in support of Parliament?” Without waiting for an answer, the Colonel jabbed a finger at the first sheet of paper. “This,” he said, “is a list of people who signed the document.”

  I looked at the list and counted nearly seventy names, most of which I recognised as being those of Nantwich residents. “The second document,” he continued, pointing to a much shorter list of names, “is a record of the Justices of the Peace and gentlemen who signed the remonstrance.” The Colonel handed me the second list, and I counted a total of twenty-eight names.

  “But these are all supporters of Parliament,” I said. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Patience, Master Cheswis,” admonished the Colonel. “All will reveal itself. Now look at the third list. This is the most interesting of the three, because it lists those prominent gentlemen and town officials who were not prepared to sign the remonstrance.” Booth pushed the third piece of paper across the table towards me and left me to read off ten names;

  Thomas Wilbraham

  Randle Church

  Thomas Maisterson

  Lady Margaret Norton

  Alexander Walthall

  William Allen

  John Saring

  William Leversage

  Richard Wickstead

  Hugh Wilbraham

  “A most interesting list,” I acknowledged, “but what does it signify?”

  The Colonel reached out for the jug of sack and poured out two fresh cups. “This,” he said, “is a list of ten of the King’s most prominent supporters from among Nantwich’s leading families. Thomas Wilbraham is now dead, but we believe his son Roger is of the same persuasion as his father. John Saring, the minister, is now locked away, thank the Lord, and the last three on the list actually signed the remonstrance, but our intelligence leads us to believe they have changed their minds and now support the King, if not actively, then at least passively. That leaves Church, Maisterson, Lady Norton, Walthall, and Allen, the first four of which are the heads of some of the town’s most influential families, all capable of compromising the town’s security should they feel so inclined. So you see, Master Cheswis, we have to be careful and keep a watchful eye over our enemies, in order to make sure we are able to foil any potential plots.”

  “And what is William Tench’s role in this?” I asked.

  “We’re not quite sure,” admitted Booth. “Of course, we know that his wife works for Randle Church, but that is the only connection we can find at the moment. Have you made any progress in the case?”

  “We’ve made some headway,” I admitted. “I’ve arrested John Davenport.”

  “Ah yes, the brine worker. Did he do it?”

  “I’m not sure, but I don’t think so.”

  “Do you have any ideas as to who might be responsible?”

  “It’s too early to tell,” I said, wary of the probing nature of the Colonel’s questions, “but I am making all the necessary enquiries.”

  “And you will keep me informed, should you make any progress?”

  “I will provide you with whatever information I can freely give,” I said, hoping that this was enough to satisfy him.

  I took another look at the Colonel’s list. One name which drew my attention was that of Richard Wickstead. It had not escaped my notice that Wickstead, the head of another of the town’s leading merchant families, was one of the Rulers of Walling present at John Davenport’s kindling that morning, and I wondered what possible significance there could be in that fact. Why were two Rulers in attendance when only one was necessary? I elected not to pass this information on to Booth until I knew more. The Colonel, for his part, had already moved on to his next question.

  “The soldiers say Tench was found with an officer’s crimson scarf around his neck,” he ventured.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Most unusual – why use an object which so obviously suggests allegiance to the King, do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, truthfully. “It may be relevant, but it may also be nothing more than a distraction.”

  Booth considered this for a moment, but must have decided he was not going to successfully extract any more information from me, because he suddenly rose to his feet and offered me his hand to shake.

  “Master Cheswis, it’s good to know I can rely on you to keep me informed about the progress of this case,” he said.

  “My first priority, sir, is to do my duty by the oaths I have taken as a constable, but you can rest assured that you will most certainly not be kept waiting, should any relevant information come to light.”

  Afterwards, I walked back to Pepper Street, my mind gripped by a feeling of confusion and uneasiness. Here was another person to add to the growing list of people showing a very specific interest in William Tench, a fact which filled me with foreboding. But if the mystery surrounding Tench was a conundrum for me, it was nothing compared to the sense of disquiet I felt about the manner in which my conversation with Colonel Booth had been conducted. Somehow, I had the feeling that, contrary to my intentions and wishes, I had been recruited for some unknown purpose and that I would not have to wait long before I found out what that purpose was.

  Mrs Padgett was waiting for me, staring anxiously out of the window, when I arrived back in Pepper Street. She rose to her feet as I approached and hurried to the door in an agitated manner, flinging it open before I could reach it myself.

  “I’m awful sorry, Mr Daniel,” she flustered. “I told the lady you would be gone some time, but she insisted on waiting.” I peered with curiosity past my housekeeper’s shoulder and immediately saw the reason for her agitation. Sat in my armchair, cradling a cup of warm spiced ale and wearing an apologetic smile on her face, was Alice.

  I must admit, I was rather shocked to find my former love presenting herself unannounced in my front room in this fashion, but I quickly recovered my composure and attempted to reassure my housekeeper.

  “Calm yourself, Mrs Padgett,” I said, stamping the snow from my boots as I stepped inside. “I will deal with this. Alice,” I said, turning to my guest. “What a surprise. I did not anticipate that I would have the pleasure of your company again quite so soon.”

  Alice smiled sweetly at me. “Please accept my apologies for the intrusion, Daniel,” she said. “I had not intended to disarm your housekeeper so. I will be brief and to the point.”

  “There is no need to apologise,” I responded, shooting a disapproving look at Mrs Padgett, who, still wearing a flustered expression, was attempting to hide it by commencing to sweep the hearth. “You are always welcome here.”

  Alice inclined her head in acknowledgement. “I have received word from my husband that he will arrive in Nantwich on Wednesday,” she said. “He plans to hold a select reception in the Crown Hotel on Thursday to announce the introduction to Nantwich of his newsbook, The Public Scout. I would like to invite you to attend.”

  This was not what I was expecting, nor was it particularly welcome. Nevertheless, I accepted the invitation with good grace and was asked to present myself in the upper gallery of the Crown at 5 pm on the following Thursday afternoon, where, I was assured, I would be privy to the very latest in news and opinion from across the country.

  Although I did not relish the prospect of spending any more time than was strictly necessary with Alice and her husband, I must confess I was intrigued at the prospect of
a parliamentary newssheet becoming freely available within the town. Despite the fact that the influx of refugees from royalist strongholds had meant that the town was becoming religiously more extreme and politically more aware, Nantwich was still a relative backwater. Copies of the Parliamentary Scout or Mercurius Britannicus occasionally found their way into the town, but in no great numbers, whilst, of course, the royalist newssheets were nowhere to be seen.

  “This newsletter,” I began. “Will it be like a political and religious pamphlet or will there be local news too?”

  “I’m sure Hugh will be able to answer your questions in more detail, but...although Hugh has gained a reputation as a political and religious campaigner, he does not just want to replicate the news from London. There are many local issues in Nantwich that are also of great interest. That is the main reason why he decided to come here. For example, I understand that there was a terrible murder here on Friday.”

  “Yes, a tanner called Tench from Hospital Street. The responsibility for investigating the death appears to have fallen to me.”

  “Really?” said Alice, with a surprised tone. “That must be an awful thing to have to deal with.”

  “It’s my job,” I responded, matter-of-factly.

  “I heard the man had been struck over the head...”

  “That is true.”

  “...and something about a crimson scarf.”

  “Yes, the victim was found with a red sash around his neck. It was similar to those worn by royalist officers. Why are you asking this, Alice?”

  Alice cupped her hands around her drink and took a mouthful. “I’m sorry, Daniel. I’m just curious...I’m a bit of a gossip at heart, but I also know this is a case that Hugh will be interested in writing about.”