Taking the lamp with him, he carefully opened the door to his chamber and descended the wooden staircase, which creaked in betrayal. The guest cursed to himself. It was not a loud noise, but it was enough to alert the Constable, who was a light sleeper.
“Is something amiss, sir?” enquired a voice from the shadows. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”
“There is no need to concern yourself, Constable,” came the whispered reply. “I am not used to sleeping in a castle keep, that is all. I thought to take a brief stroll to get some fresh air and to settle my mind. I will return to my chamber presently.”
“Then make sure you alert the guards to your presence and, for God’s sake, don’t fall down the well in the dark. I would not want to have to explain that to your brother-in-law.” The guest grunted his assent and was relieved to see the Constable turn over and start to snore almost immediately.
Stepping out into the night, he scanned the upper ward and registered the presence of four sentries keeping watch at different corners of the ward. He waited until he was sure they had all seen him and then, taking his oil lamp with him, he made his way to his right and skirted around the ward, past the well, one of the deepest in the land, rumoured to be where King Richard II had once concealed treasure from his pursuing enemies. He approached a sentry at the foot of the south-eastern tower, who nodded a greeting.
“All’s well?” asked the guest, in a low voice, looking around him.
“The guard in the tower is half-asleep,” confided the sentry with a grin. “You won’t have any trouble from that quarter.”
The guest acknowledged this with satisfaction and walked round to the north-east corner of the ward, where another sentry was waiting. They exchanged a look of quiet recognition but no words were spoken.
The guest strained his eyes in the dark and noted that the point on the north-eastern corner of the ward where they stood was at least partially obscured from the view of both sentries patrolling the western part of the ward. He observed one sentry walk from the western gatehouse to halfway along the western wall, noting that he was hidden by the bulk of the gateways for half the time. The other sentry paced from the centre of the western wall to midway along the northern wall. A kink in the northern wall meant the sentry was not visible to the guest when he was walking along it.
The guest gave a thumbs-up to the sentry at the south-eastern corner, who promptly walked past the well towards the gateway, where he engaged one of the other sentries in conversation, making sure they were both behind the gateway and therefore out of view.
Holding his breath in anticipation, the guest waited until the other sentry began his walk along the northern wall and sprang into action. He had to work fast, for he knew he had only a couple of minutes to complete his task. Thrusting his head between two crenellations, he looked over the wall. It was dark below, but he knew there were a couple of hundred feet of crags, trees, and steep slopes between him and the valley floor. Holding the lamp above the crenellations, so that it could be seen from the valley below, he counted to ten and then removed it from view. He then counted ten more and held the light up again. Time seemed to stop and the guest looked anxiously towards the north-western corner of the ward. There was still no sign of the sentry, so he lifted the lamp for a third time. From somewhere below, an owl hooted.
The guest then waited for the sentry to reappear and watched him for three minutes while he walked to the centre of the western wall and back. All this time, the steady murmur of conversation could be heard from behind the gateway.
As soon as the sentry disappeared along the northern wall again, the guest undid his coat and unravelled the rope from around his torso. He tied it securely around one of the crenellations and threw the end over the side of the castle walls. He then calmly picked up the lamp and walked back to his bedchamber in the western gatehouse.
Meanwhile, Captain Thomas Sandford had been standing down in the valley with eight of his firelocks, staring up at the castle walls, muskets slung over their backs. For the last thirty minutes, the men had been impatiently rubbing their hands and stamping their feet to keep warm. One of the soldiers had a rope wound over his shoulders, another a length of rope ladder. They were all battle-hardened veterans from the Irish campaign.
“By Jesu, it’s cold,” whispered one of them.
“You’ll be warm soon enough,” said Sandford in response.
Sandford was a tall, athletic, square-jawed soldier, who cut an air of authority as he waited with his men. He stared up at the dark mass of the castle, which rose like a spectre far above them, looming, black, and silent. Presently, he saw a light appear high above the castle walls. It illuminated one of the crenellations for a few seconds and then disappeared, only to reappear a few moments later. It did this for a third time and then disappeared again.
“That is the sign,” said Sandford, and turned to his men. “Burroughs,” he said, addressing the soldier with the length of rope. Burroughs stepped forward, cupped his hands to his mouth and made a low hooting sound.
“Hear me well, my brave firelocks,” said the Captain. “You all know exactly what to do. Let us show these rebel curs what the King’s army is made of. Have courage, lads, and Cheshire will long talk of the day that Beeston Castle was taken for the King.”
The soldiers murmured their assent.
“Begging your pardon, Captain Sandford, sir,” said one of them. “There are but nine of us. What happens if they decide to fight?”
“Mister Maddocke, there will be less than ten men in the inner ward, of which three are with us. The majority of the force will either be guarding the outer walls or they will be asleep. They will never be expecting us to attack from this side of the castle. What’s more, the captain in charge of this place is but a Chester cheese vendor. He is here only reluctantly. If we show discipline and courage, they will yield quickly, mark my words.” Sandford faced his men and put his hands out in front of him, one on top of the other. One by one the soldiers laid their hands on top of his.
“For God and the King,” he said. The soldiers repeated his words in unison, eager at the prospect of action.
Sandford turned again to the soldier with the rope. “March on, Burroughs,” he said. “You lead the way. Sergeant Wright - You take the rear.”
The line of soldiers marched silently up the steep grass slope leading to the crags below the castle walls, through a group of trees, until they reached the base of the crags.
“How the fuck do we get up that?” whispered Maddocke, who was the second-last man.
“Silence,” whispered the sergeant behind him. “You’ll alert the whole fucking castle.”
Sandford gestured to Burroughs, who skirted to the left around the base of the rock face to reveal a possible route up a groove in the rock. Demonstrating why he had been chosen to carry the rope, Burroughs sprang athletically up the rock face and emerged five minutes later on a ledge underneath the walls. He felt his way a couple of feet to his right and located a length of rope hanging from the walls above. Positioning himself below the rope, with his back against the wall and his feet against a large boulder, he then tied his own rope securely round his waist and let it fall to the men below.
A few minutes later, the soldier with the rope ladder appeared next to him. This soldier tied the top rung of the rope ladder securely to the rope hanging from the castle. Once secure, he gave it three sharp tugs and a face peered over the wall. Suddenly, the rope ladder was being dragged up the side of the castle ramparts, unravelling as it did so. A few seconds later, the face appeared again and nodded at the man below. The soldier then climbed the thirty feet up the ladder and was helped over the castle wall. He dropped noiselessly to the floor and remained motionless for a few seconds.
At the appearance of the firelock, the sentry at the south-eastern tower walked back to the gatehouse and recommenced his conversation with the other sentry.
Having watched this, his co-conspirator whispered to the firel
ock. “March round to the south-east tower and wait in the garderobe until everyone is over the wall. You can walk normally. It’s too dark for the sentries on the other side to see you properly.”
Sandford was the next soldier to emerge above the parapet, followed quickly by the rest of the men. Three of these waited for a sign from the garderobe that the sentry on the northern wall was facing the other way before scuttling quickly along the eastern wall to join their colleague.
The final four firelocks, including Sergeant Wright, Maddocke, and Burroughs, waited by the northern wall.
What happened next passed in a blur. Sandford’s troops emerged from the south-eastern tower with two sentries at gun point, one of whom looked a little unsteady on his feet and was holding the back of his head. Cursing, they were made to lie face down while one of the intruders guarded them, a musket trained on their backs. Sandford and the other three firelocks manoeuvred their way through the shadows towards the gatehouse, where the two sentries on duty were still talking. The sentry who had been guarding the south-eastern corner of the ward had positioned himself so he could see his colleague and the four remaining soldiers in the north-eastern corner. At a sign from them, he threw his hands in the air, leaving Sandford and his men to overpower the other sentry. The remaining sentry on the northern wall saw what was happening, but had no time to react, for three of the remaining four firelocks sprinted into view with their muskets raised. In shock, he immediately dropped his weapon and raised his hands, but he was too slow. A musket butt crashed into his temple, and he sank to the ground, unconscious.
Within two minutes, the remaining guards in the gatehouse were rounded up and the Constable was dragged unceremoniously from his bed. All the prisoners were made to sit with their backs to the gatehouse wall. Sandford counted them. Nine men in total.
Sandford grimaced at the bleary-eyed constable. “Who’s in charge here?” he barked.
“I am the Constable of the Keep. There is also Sergeant Wilkes.” The Constable indicated one of the guards, who had emerged from the gatehouse.
“Is there anyone else here?”
“There is a guest asleep in the bedchamber at the top of the gatehouse, but he is a civilian guest. He is Captain Steele’s brother-in-law.”
“Then we’d better raise him,” said Sandford. Burroughs and another soldier were despatched and emerged a couple of minutes later with a groggy-looking guest.
Sandford addressed the sergeant. “Sergeant Wilkes. You are to send one of your men to Captain Steele’s quarters to advise him of our presence. Have him present himself at the gates without delay. I would parley with him.”
Twenty minutes later, Captain Thomas Steele and fifteen of his men were positioned on the grass at the foot of the gateway opposite the raised drawbridge. Sandford, meanwhile, had placed himself at the top of eastern gateway tower.
“Good morning, Captain Steele. I trust we didn’t wake you too early,” he said.
“Who the blazes are you?” demanded Steele, “and what is your purpose?”
“I am Captain Thomas Sandford of his Majesty’s firelocks. I come to request that you surrender this castle to my Lord Byron for the King’s use.”
“And why, sirrah, do you suppose, I would submit to this request without resistance?”
“Come, Captain Steele,” said Sandford. “We have gained control of the inner ward, and more of our men are entering as we speak. We also have your brother-in-law captive. Furthermore, his Majesty’s army is within striking distance of your outer walls and you are but sixty strong. Do you seriously consider that you can resist us?”
“It is my duty to do exactly that.”
“Then let me be clear, Captain Steele. I will tell you the same as I told the inhabitants of Hawarden Castle a few days ago. We are loyal to his Majesty and will not shrink from correcting rebels such as yourselves. However, as I am loath to spill the blood of my own countrymen, you will be received into mercy if you surrender this place together with its provisions, and you will be permitted to leave with your arms and your colours flying. Your brother-in-law will be freed once you have left. However, if you put us to the least trouble, or if any of my men are harmed, you can expect no quarter.”
Steele considered this for a moment. “Captain,” he said, eventually. “You have a nerve, I’ll grant you that. Let us discuss terms like the gentlemen that we are. Bring one of your men and we will discuss this over breakfast in my quarters. I will receive you in half an hour. In the meantime, I will have bread and ale sent up for your men.”
The guest, who had been listening to this exchange with interest, had been separated from the others and was sitting on his own by the well, with only one firelock guarding him. Sandford approached him and gave him a wry smile.
“That was easier than I thought,” he breathed. “If this is the quality of the men that defends Parliament’s cause, we shall carve our way through Cheshire like a knife through butter.”
“My brother-in-law’s a good man,” said the guest, “but he’s far too easily manipulated.”
Sandford nodded. “Let’s hope the townsfolk of Nantwich treat him as well as we are doing. Somehow, I doubt that will be the case.”
11
Nantwich – Wednesday, December 13, 1643
The first indication that Byron’s troops were getting close was on the Wednesday evening. Skinner and I had just returned to Nantwich with a cart fully-laden with cheese and, ironically, having spent the day in the countryside to the east of the town, where the chance of running into a royalist patrol was negligible, we had both felt further removed from the tension pervading the garrison than we had for some time.
We had taken the horse and cart and paid a visit to my parents’ farm in Barthomley, visiting, on the way back, other farms in the hamlets of Englesea Brook, Weston, Shavington-cum-Gresty, and Willaston with which I had developed a relationship. It had been another bitterly cold day, but the weather, which had been bright and sunny with cloudless skies, lifted our spirits and lightened our mood. The only downside to this was that I was forced to put up with Skinner’s incessant singing, which, I had discovered, he was wont to do when in the right mood – or wrong mood, depending on how you looked at it. As we manoeuvred the cart down Hospital Street, Skinner again broke into song, drawing the attention of the passers-by.
“The Lord Capell with a thousand and a half,
Came to Bartons Crosse and there they kill’d a calf,
And staying there until the break of day,
They took their heels and fast they ran away.”
Several people smiled as they heard the melody, not because of Skinner’s singing voice, which was tuneful enough, but because they recognised the ditty, which had become all the rage in Nantwich during the past six months.
The song told of events in May, when Arthur, Lord Capel, who was in charge of the King’s forces in Shropshire, had ridden to Nantwich with near enough fifteen hundred men and tried to attack the town. However, the ordnance that he had brought with him had been placed on ground that was too high, and, despite the strength of his forces, all they managed to achieve was to damage some barns and kill a calf belonging to Mr Thomas Mainwaring. The royalists were forced to return in shame to Whitchurch, the town’s ridicule which nipped at their heels being reflected in the words of the rhyme.
A small group of soldiers by the sconce near Church’s Mansion cheered in approval as we passed.
“That’s right, lad. A bunch of useless Irish piss-pots is what they are,” shouted one of them. “Couldn’t shoot a barn wall from the inside and that’s the truth of it.”
“Aye, we’ll send the whoreson papist bastards back where they came from,” agreed another.
Despite the confidence, I couldn’t help feeling that the army that was heading our way might be a different proposition to the Shropshire forces that had attacked the town before; a view which I knew was held by many. Indeed, the apprehension in Nantwich at the prospect of being overr
un by Byron’s forces was palpable. It was not without justification, for the townsfolk had, in fact, already suffered an invasion of their streets by royalist soldiers. The experience had not been a pleasant one.
In September 1642, before the earthworks had been built, the royalist commander, Lord Grandison, the brother of the Duke of Buckingham, had approached the town with around seven hundred horse, including troopers and dragooners. A number of townsfolk had drawn chains across the end of Hospital Street and were ready to mount a defence. However, partly in recognition of the fact that the King, at that time, was in Shrewsbury and would have been able to call on a much larger force, but mainly because Lord Grandison gave an undertaking not to do them or the town any harm, the chain was withdrawn and the cavaliers given access to the town.
To our dismay, Grandison had promptly reneged on his word and disarmed every man in Nantwich, taking his arms and armour and taking whatever else they could find from both the town and the countryside thereabouts, before high-tailing it back to Shrewsbury. Grandison’s men took a week’s supply of my cheese with them and would have taken my horse, Demeter, too, had I not taken the precaution of stabling him temporarily in my wich house. Trusting royalist promises was a mistake that the townspeople had no intention of making again, particularly now that Nantwich was defended by the garrison.
After delivering half the stock of cheese to Captain Draycott and storing the remainder at home for Saturday’s market, I became aware of a commotion taking place on the other side of the buildings between my house and the Crown Hotel. I unsaddled the horse and put the cart in the yard, before walking down to the square and turning right to see a most unusual scene unfolding in front of The Crown. A middle-aged officer was being roughly handled by some of the townsfolk and was being forced towards the entrance of the hotel. I noticed with surprise that the commotion seemed to be being led by several gentlemen, whose faces were lined with animosity, but the disturbance had spread to include most of the men in the street at that time. Of greater concern was the fact that none of the soldiers thereabouts seemed prepared to lift a finger to help the officer, who was on the point of being overwhelmed in the melee. Over the rumpus I heard shouts of “traitor” and “coward” ring through the air, whilst, in the distance, a small company of about sixty men waited in formation in the Swine Market.
The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1) Page 11