I was just about to try to break up the disturbance when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of my brother, Simon, lingering on the edge of the crowd, so I went over to him.
“Is something amiss?” I asked.
“Beeston Castle has fallen,” replied my brother. “It appears the garrison there was attacked last night. Captain Steele has surrendered the castle and all its contents without a fight.”
“Beeston, fallen? It can’t be,” I said, with incredulity. “I thought that place was nigh-on impregnable. How strong was the attacking force?”
“That, brother, would appear to be the problem. The soldiers standing in the market are suggesting that fewer than ten men actually got into the castle. Some of the people here had moved livestock and valuables up to Beeston for safekeeping. You can see why they are not best pleased.”
“And the soldiers? Why are they not helping?”
“They are angry too. The castle had ammunition and provisions for half a year at least – all now in the King’s possession.”
I whistled in surprise and peered again into the crowd. “And that, I presume, is Captain Steele,” I speculated, nodding towards the unfortunate officer, who was in the process of being felled by a clubbing fist from one of the angry mob.
At that moment, a column of perhaps a dozen soldiers approaching from the square cut a swathe through the seething mob and grabbed Steele by the scruff of the neck, extracting him from the crowd. At the same time, a pistol shot rang out, and some of the people attacking the officer were barged out of the way and sent sprawling on the floor. Out of the confusion, the lithe figure of Major Lothian appeared.
“I will no’ permit the assault of parliamentary soldiers by a stinking mob of townspeople – d’ye hear?” shouted Lothian, his scots accent being accentuated as a result of his raised voice. “If there is military justice to be dispensed in this town, it will be carried out in the proper manner, not in a free-for-all.”
Lothian’s voice was enough to stop the disturbance momentarily, and, despite some discontented grumblings, the noise began to die down. Those who had been foremost in assaulting the Captain melted magically into the mass of the crowd, and Steele was allowed to get gingerly to his feet. “Thank you, Major,” he said, straightening his collar.
“You have got nothing to be thankful for yet, Captain,” barked Lothian, his face like thunder. “You have got some explaining to do.” With that, Steele was grabbed by the arms and led away towards the Lamb, leaving one of the other officers, Captain Sadler, to take charge of Steele’s men.
When order had been restored and the crowd dispersed, I invited Simon to join me in a tankard of ale. A full day on the road had left me with a rare thirst, and so we headed straight for The Crown and ordered two pints of strong ale. The air was heavy in the tavern, a sweet tobacco smell mixed with male sweat and beer dominating the fug of the taproom. Many soldiers from the garrison were billeted in The Crown, and so the tavern was full of them. We took our ale over to a table by a window and sat down.
“I’ve not seen you these past three days,” I said, slaking my thirst with a huge gulp of beer. Simon smiled and ran his fingers through his hair, brushing the long, straight strands from his face.
“We’ve been busy in the workshop,” he revealed, “but you will probably be seeing much more of me soon. It is too risky to go to Manchester at the moment, but there is plenty of business locally. It is surprising how many boots are required for the soldiers and other hangers-on.”
“These are difficult times,” I reflected, “but it’s true that having over a thousand soldiers in the town does have its advantages.”
“Thank God they are here,” said my brother. “We need both them and the efforts of the townsfolk if we are not to be overrun by the Irish and sacked. It seems Nantwich has become the only haven in Cheshire for right-thinking people of the true faith. We need to stand against supporters of this romish King of ours. We must act against those who would ally themselves with papists.”
I have to admit, I was somewhat taken aback by the strength of feeling in Simon’s words. I had no idea he felt this strongly and realised with a pang that I no longer knew my own brother the way I should. I gave him a penetrating look.
“Do you really believe all these stories about barbarity?” I said. “Are we really to believe the Irish boil the heads of children in front of their mothers and murder babies as soon as they are born? These are surely stories created for political expediency. What I hear is that these people are mostly not Irishmen. They are Cheshire men like you and I. Anyway, I didn’t think you were such a hot protestant, Simon.”
“I’m not. I’m all for tolerance, but, over the years, it’s been difficult for anyone with puritan views to worship in this area.”
“And you believe it will be better if the place were run by puritans of the likes of William Prynne or John Bastwick? They’ll be banning Christmas before long, I’ll wager. Surely the best road is a middle road?”
“You’re right, brother,” said Simon. “But it’s not religion that is my main concern. It is opportunity that is the most important factor for me. The opportunity to act against a King who thinks it’s his divine right to rule as he sees fit. The opportunity for ordinary people in Parliament to run the country. Equal opportunities for all. We have to fight for this. You say we will run a cheese business when this is all over, Daniel, but we need to fight to make sure we can.”
“Protecting Nantwich won’t be easy,” I said.
“I know. Booth’s forces are only a thousand strong, and they say five thousand of the King’s men are on their way here. Even within this town, there are still forces which would have Byron running the place. The main families are mostly for the King, and, until recently, even the vicar was a royalist. And there are other forces at play too. Who do you suppose is responsible for distributing the poisonous literature from Oxford that turned up yesterday?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, intrigued at Simon’s show of passion for this subject too. “One thing is certain, though,” I added. The puritan pamphlets coming out of Shrewsbury recently bear no more proximity to the truth than Mercurius Aulicus. If you believe them, the King’s soldiers have crucifixes hanging around their necks and openly drink to the health of Phelim O’Neale.”
“The very devil and a murderer of good Irish Protestants,” said Simon.
“I’d no idea you were such a firebrand,” I said. “Perhaps you would benefit from a meeting with the printer of these pamphlets.”
“You can arrange this?” he asked, his eyes widening. “I heard the publisher Hugh Furnival plans to be in town and will be presenting his new newssheet in The Crown, tomorrow.” I realised with a start that Simon did not realise that Furnival was married to Alice – and why should he? Simon was only eleven when I had left home and fourteen when Alice had left me for Furnival. At that time, nobody had dared speak of what had happened between Alice and me, and I certainly had not mentioned it to Simon.
I smiled. “For you, brother, anything,” I said. “I have an invitation to Furnival’s reception. I suggest you join me.”
12
Nantwich – Thursday, December 14, 1643
The weather had changed again overnight, bringing with it a fresh fall of snow and a bitter wind that cut through my coat like a knife, blowing fresh powder snow like a fine mist in swirls around the streets. The snow had stopped falling by the time I ventured out onto Pepper Street, but the sky remained heavy and oppressive.
However, the weather was not the only thing that was closing in. The previous night had brought with it clear evidence that royalist forces were beginning to amass in the surrounding countryside. There had been several alarms in the town during the hours of darkness, the night being punctuated by the sound of occasional musket-fire as opportunists hiding in the fields and hedgerows took occasional pot-shots at anyone from the garrison who stuck their heads too far over the earthen walls.
One of the first signs that things were about to change was the appearance of Major Lothian at my front door as soon as it was light. I was surprised to see him but pleased at the same time, for he was able to update me on what had happened during the night. One soldier had apparently received a musket ball in the arm, and sentries were reporting that the fires of groups of royalists could now be seen in the neighbouring hamlets. The only consolation was that they were camping out in the open air or in isolated barns. Captain Steele, meanwhile, had been locked up in the town jail alongside Davenport. I felt sorry for the Captain, but at least he was indoors, out of the biting cold.
Lothian had approached me because as constables, Arthur Sawyer and I were in charge of musters. The Scotsman, meanwhile, was responsible for training the garrison, and it had occurred to him that, in the likelihood of the town being stormed or placed under siege, it would be worthwhile training some of the townsfolk to defend themselves, given that Colonel Booth would, as likely as not, conscript all able-bodied men, should such an eventuality come to pass. Lothian, apparently, had thirty spare muskets, with which he proposed to arm an equal number of suitable townsfolk.
“Make sure you and Sawyer get together thirty able-bodied men and present yourselves for training at Tinkers Croft tomorrow morning at ten,” he said, before leaving me to contemplate having to rely on the good nature of Alexander to help me with my ever-increasing workload.
I realised that this time it might take a little more than my persuasive skills to convince Margery Clowes that her husband should give up part of his day to help me, so, once I had breakfasted, I made sure I wrapped up a good portion of my father’s best cream cheese and took it with me.
It was Margery herself who opened the door, and she eyed me with suspicion when she saw what I was carrying.
“Is that a peace offering or a bribe, Daniel?” she asked, opening the package and taking in the rich aroma of the cheese. “Only we cannot live on cheese alone. We need bread too and we can’t buy that unless Alexander works to put pennies in our pocket.”
I glanced behind Margery at Alexander, who was wearing a sheepish look on his face.
“I know, Margery,” I said. “I’m truly sorry, but we may all have difficulties putting bread on the table if Lord Byron attacks. What I need Alexander for today is vital for the safety of the town.”
“And what would that be exactly?”
I was about to tell Margery the truth, but before I could put my foot in it, Alexander slipped by his wife and grabbed me by the arm.
“I will be back by lunchtime,” he called over his shoulder, leading me swiftly down the street. “If you were a married man, Daniel,” he said to me once we were out of earshot, “you would know there is no winning arguments of this kind.”
Alexander and I first walked over to the Davenport’s wich house to make sure Skinner had been sent over to work the final day’s walling. We then hurried over to the jail where the talk was all about Beeston Castle and the near riot that had been avoided the previous day. Hopwood and Sawyer were both there, discussing the rising tension in the town and the concern many felt that the size of Booth’s garrison would not be large enough to repel Lord Byron’s forces. Until Sir William Brereton returned to Nantwich with reinforcements, the consensus was that the next few weeks would not be pleasant.
Sawyer and I quickly arranged to split up the task of recruiting trainee musketeers for Lothian by finding fifteen people each, so Alexander and I spent the next two hours accosting people in the street and knocking on tradesmen’s doors. Walking down Barker Street, having recruited Roger and John Comberbach, we noticed an altercation by one of the tanners’ yards.
A young Beeston musketeer, tall and spindly but no older than eighteen or nineteen, was being pushed around by three burly-looking soldiers, who I recognised from the disturbance the day before. The youth’s nose was bleeding and his musket had been knocked to the ground.
“Just as I thought, a proper soft bastard,” sneered one of the soldiers, a short, stocky man with the beginnings of a paunch, who seemed to be the ringleader of the group.
“Aye, no more than you’d expect from one of those milk-livered arseholes from Beeston,” said another, a taller man with a short red beard.
“Milk-livered? What do you mean?” shot back the youth. “What do you want from me?”
“Just some sport,” grinned Paunch. “You beetle-headed cowards didn’t even have it within you to face up to a few high-born cavaliers. Now you’re going to pay for it.”
“Aye,” added Red Beard. “I’ve been to Beeston. It’s built on a fucking cliff. How can you not defend such a place?”
At that, the third man, a balding man in his thirties with a black-toothed grin, stepped forward and started pushing the youth up against the tannery wall. The youngster, to his credit, was not cowed and aimed a kick at Black Tooth’s shins, sending the man howling backwards, where he slipped and fell into the snow.
“Go fuck yourself, maggot-pie,” spat the youth. “The surrender of Beeston has nothing to do with me. That was Captain Steele’s doing, as you well know, and he awaits judgement on his actions.”
Although the youth was giving an impressive account of himself, it was evident that he was in for a beating, so I stepped forward.
“Hold!” I shouted. “I’d leave the lad alone if I were you.”
Paunch turned round and stared at me with curiosity. “And who are you to order us about?” he snarled.
“My name is Cheswis,” I said, observing Alexander pick up the youth’s musket out of the corner of my eye. “I’m one of the elected constables here.”
“Get lost, bum-bailey,” snarled Paunch. “Go concern yourself with your own affairs. This is military business. And tell that lackey of yours to put that musket down before he gets hurt. He looks like he doesn’t know one end of it from the other.”
Red Beard and Black Tooth both sniggered at this and took Paunch’s comments as the signal to step forward and grab hold of the youth again.
“This is no military business,” I insisted. “This is common assault.” Paunch scowled and made to grab for my collar, but he was too slow. Alexander had taken hold of the musket by the barrel and swung it, catching Paunch full in the face with the butt, sending him sprawling on his back, spitting blood and teeth into the snow. Red Beard and Black Tooth froze as they took in the scene.
“There’s more than one way to use a musket,” said Alexander.
“I suggest you pick up your friend and move it,” I said, “unless you wish to be arrested for assault, that is.”
Red Beard and Black Tooth said nothing, but helped their groaning colleague to his feet and scuttled off down the street in defeat, whilst the youth watched in disbelief.
“You have a way with that musket, sir,” he said, addressing Alexander. “I owe you my thanks.”
“It was nothing,” acknowledged my friend. “You looked like you were managing well enough without our help.”
The youth, I noticed, spoke with the flat monotone of one born in the town of Birmingham.
“You are some way from home, young man,” I said. “What do they call you?”
“My name is Jack Wade, sir,” he replied. “I was among the garrison that arrived from Beeston yesterday. Many of our men are being treated in this manner. I shouldn’t really be walking around on my own.”
I offered my hand to Wade and introduced myself, as did Alexander. “Tell me,” I asked, “How is it a Birmingham man ends up in Beeston Castle? Don’t tell me you were at home when it was attacked by Prince Rupert in April?”
“I was, sir. It is quite a story but one worth telling. My father was a blacksmith, a profitable trade in Birmingham, for the town made thousands of swords for the parliamentary army. Birmingham is a puritan town and stood firmly against the King, and although we made the best swords in the land, many refused to sell to the royalists. Then, last October, the King happened to march through Birmingham on the way from Shr
ewsbury to Edgehill. On his way through, a group of townsfolk seized some of the King’s carriages, taking some of his plate and furniture. We knew then we would pay for this action, for the King could not allow such a humiliation.”
“So he sent his nephew to teach you a lesson,” I said.
“Yes, Prince Rupert came with twelve hundred troopers and dragoons and seven hundred foot. Our defence under Sir Richard Greaves was no more than three hundred strong. We never stood a chance, and yet Sir Richard’s brave men repelled the Prince twice from their earthworks. However, the Prince then attacked from the rear, and our men were forced to retreat into the town, where they shot at the enemy from the houses. It was a terrible sight. The cavaliers set fire to our houses, scattering those men that were left. And yet Sir Richard still did not give up. He gathered up all his horse, retreated to the far end of the town and then charged the cavaliers, causing them to retreat themselves.”
“And then what happened?”
“It was a disaster. Sir Richard knew he could not win, and it soon became clear that the last charge was only to give him enough time to save his men. He drew his forces together and set off for Lichfield, leaving us to our fate.”
I didn’t need to ask Wade what happened next, for I knew the story. Prince Rupert had exacted revenge in the most savage manner, his men raping, killing, and burning indiscriminately. Many houses were razed to the ground, and there were even tales that a minister of the church had been cut down and murdered.
“And what of your family?” I asked.
The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1) Page 12