The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1)

by D. W. Bradbridge

  Major Lothian’s group of horse, it transpired, had advanced quickly to the hamlet of Burford, just north of Acton, with a view to heading off a large group of royalists, the cause of the alarm on the town. However, Lothian’s men, keen to teach Byron a lesson, attacked some of the royalist horse before the foot soldiers from the garrison had time to reach them to offer support. Although the Scotsman and his men fought bravely, killing and capturing a number of the King’s men, Lothian himself made the uncharacteristic mistake of venturing too far and was taken prisoner. When the Nantwich foot eventually arrived, it was too late. The royalists had fled, and Lothian had been spirited away into captivity. What had seemed ready to become a victory had been turned into a defeat. The cavaliers had been chased away into the Cheshire countryside, at least for the time being, but Colonel Booth had lost his most important military advisor. The dour Scotsman was seen by most Nantwich people as an outsider, but he was recognised by all as a discreet and valiant soldier, whose influence on the Colonel would be greatly missed.

  I sighed and watched the last stragglers from the skirmish return through the gates into Welsh Row, a group of pikemen marching at the head of a small group of half a dozen royalist prisoners, one of whom was clutching a wound on his arm, a cart carrying back two injured cavalrymen, and, finally, the last of the musketeers, amongst whose number I spotted Carter and Hughes. Carter looked up and saluted me as he passed, but the whole group wore a downcast look. The people of Nantwich would feel a little less secure that night in the knowledge that James Lothian was no longer in charge.

  It was about seven o’clock that evening before I was able to find the time to fulfil my obligation to Elizabeth Brett. Two hours after the return of the last of the men from Burford, I was finally relieved of my post on the walkway at Welsh Row End by a reluctant-looking tanner’s apprentice and allowed to return, shivering, to the warmth of my front room. It had been a long day. However, once warmed and fortified with a bellyful of Mrs Padgett’s mutton stew, I felt somewhat re-invigorated and was able to pull my coat around my shoulders and set out with Alexander towards the Bretts’ house on Beam Street, with a view to checking on the widow’s well-being.

  The mist from earlier in the day had cleared, and it was a bright albeit bitterly cold evening in Nantwich. An icy sheen covered the almost full moon, whose now-waning orb cast a magical, almost other-wordly light on the frost-covered trees lining the road where the buildings thinned out towards the edge of town. The luminescent glow of the moonlight reflected off the cobbles and contrasted eerily with the shadows, which seemed to move in the corner of my eye and disappear down alleyways to the side of houses. The air was perfectly still, allowing the sound of the guards manning the earthworks to carry from behind the houses to the left of the street. Intermittent shouts of alarm and the occasional musket shot echoed through the air. The town was still on high alert, and, although the royalists had initially been chased away from Acton by the men from the garrison, it had not been long before they had returned and begun to harass the town once more. This activity became more evident as Alexander and I walked up Beam Street towards the sconce at the end of the street. I thanked God that I lived in the middle of the town and not close to the earthworks.

  We were able to see the Bretts’ brick house clearly in the moonlight, shadows playing off the side of the building. Candlelight emanated from the cottages behind, a lantern hanging from the front door of one. However, the Bretts’ house was curiously in darkness.

  Alexander and I knocked loudly on the door and waited a few moments, but there was no answer. Shrugging, I knocked a second time and, this time, called Mrs Brett’s name. This attracted a few curious looks from passers-by, but there was still no answer.

  I was just about to turn away when I heard a strange noise from somewhere inside the house, like the sound of earthenware smashing. Casting a quick glance at Alexander, I noticed he was ready to break down the front door, but I motioned for him to calm down.

  “Wait here,” I whispered. “I’ll go round the back.”

  Drawing my club from my belt, I crept stealthily towards the alleyway down the left side of the house, which led to the rear of the property. It still felt strange wielding the wooden cudgel I was required to carry by the manorial court. I had owned mine for a while, as all households in Nantwich were expected to carry a suitable club in order to assist the constable with his work, but it still gave me an uncomfortable feeling to use it as a tool of the trade.

  Fortunately, the moonlight was shining directly into the alley, so I walked straight down it, into the back yard. It was a large yard, with a stable block on the left, a pigsty down the bottom of garden, and housing for other livestock next to it. A horse whickered as I approached the stables and peered down towards the back fence for any sign of movement, but there was nothing there. I noticed, however, that the rear door to the house had been forced and stood slightly ajar.

  I pushed the door open gingerly and walked into what appeared to be the kitchen. As my eyes grew accustomed to the light, I noticed a table in the middle of the room and a row of cooking implements hanging on the wall. Next to them was a shelf, with food jars on it and an unlit candle at one end. I made a move towards the candle with a view to lighting it, but, just as I did so, I heard the sound of footsteps on the floorboards upstairs.

  “Mrs Brett, it’s Constable Cheswis here. Are you there?” I called. The footsteps ceased immediately, but there was no response. My mouth went dry as I strained my ears to try and pick out any sound. There was nothing but silence and a growing feeling that I was in the presence of somebody else. I waited a moment before edging my way towards a door in the far wall. Going through it, I found myself in the hall I was in the day before. There was no sign of recent occupation, but the cupboards were open and had been ransacked. Papers lay strewn across the floor.

  With a start, I began to wonder what had happened to Elizabeth Brett. My eyes focused on the stairs leading to the bedchambers, and I was just about to head over to them when I caught a swift movement out of the corner of my eye. Suddenly, a huge weight crashed into me from the side, sending me sprawling into a chair, which snapped under me as I fell, sending splinters flying across the room. I struggled to get up and turn round to catch sight of my assailant, but I was too slow. A heavy leather boot caught me full in the gut, and, as I doubled up in pain, I felt a sharp blow on the side of my head, and my world descended into blackness.

  When I regained consciousness, I was surprised to find myself staring into the face of Elizabeth Brett, who had just thrown a bowl of ice cold water into my face. At first, I thought I must be dreaming. However, I was soon brought to my senses by the sound of Simon from somewhere behind me, saying “Thank the Lord – he’s coming round.”

  I tried to sit up but was forced to lie straight back down again as a bolt of pain shot through my skull.

  “What happened?” I asked, weakly, running my fingers across my cranium and finding a lump the size of an egg just above my temple. Alexander stepped forward and looked at me with concerned eyes over Elizabeth Brett’s shoulder.

  “I heard the noise from inside the building,” he said. “I shouted and tried to break down the door. Fortunately, Mrs Brett was at your brother’s house and they both came running when they were alerted by the noise.”

  “Aye. We found you on the floor like this,” added Simon. “It’s a blessing that you were wearing your hat, because whoever did this gave you a fearsome crack on the skull.”

  I couldn’t disagree. I picked up my wide-brimmed hat, which was lying by my side, and inspected it.

  “Did you see who did this?” I asked, eventually.

  “No,” said Alexander. “He escaped over the back fence, through the trees and across the meadow behind the house. He probably doubled left when he reached the earthworks and ended up in Snow Hill.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “I don’t know – I couldn’t say. I lost sight of him in the trees.
” At that moment, a figure appeared at the foot of the stairs, and I frowned as I recognised the youthful features of James Nuttall.

  “Nothing seems to have been taken,” he said, “but he’s left a fearful mess.”

  I squinted uncomfortably at the sandy-haired youth as he descended the stairs, and I realised that he must also have arrived with Simon. As my head cleared, the truth began to dawn on me. Whoever had broken into Mrs Brett’s house knew exactly what they were looking for. What was more, Nuttall, Simon, and the young widow were all in the know too. I pursed my lips and glared at Elizabeth Brett. I was beginning to lose my patience.

  “Why would somebody want to break into your house, Mrs Brett, no more than twenty-four hours after your husband has been murdered? What was he looking for? I think it’s about time you all explained what’s going on.”

  I pulled myself into a sitting position and groaned as I felt the imprint of my assailant’s boot on my belly. I lifted up my shirt and inspected the bright red mark underneath my ribs. I watched Nuttall shoot a furtive glance at Simon, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

  “We’ll explain to you tomorrow,” said Simon. “Right now, we need to get you back home for some rest.” Turning to Mrs Brett, he added, “We’ll sort this mess out in the morning when it’s light.”

  I tried to protest, but Simon and Alexander hoisted me to my feet and helped me walk groggily back down Beam Street, making me hold a ball of snow to my head to reduce the swelling. They led me back down Pepper Street to my house, where Mrs Padgett made a terrible fuss and insisted I was put straight to bed, where, thankful for the rest, I fell into a deep sleep.

  17

  Nantwich – Monday, December 18, 1643

  I dreamt I was in Tinkers Croft. It was summertime, and the meadow was being used for a fair. At the edge of the field, hawkers were selling all kinds of food and drink to the townsfolk, who were milling across the field, all in good humour. Music was playing, and in the middle distance, two teams of men were preparing to take part in a tug-of-war contest. They were already beginning to line up and take the strain when I realised that the flag in the middle of the rope was, in fact, the crimson scarf that was found around William Tench’s neck.

  I looked around in consternation and realised that I recognised all the participants. On one side, his long brown curls waving madly from side to side, was Colonel Booth. Behind him was Major Lothian, followed, bizarrely, by the sober figures of Hugh Furnival and the puritan schoolmaster Edward Burghall. At the other end of the rope was the steely grin of Thomas Maisterson, followed by young Roger Wilbraham of Townsend House, Randle Church, and, again rather oddly, John Saring, the recently removed minister of St Mary’s.

  I walked over to inspect the scarf in the middle of the rope. Then, suddenly, it was no longer the rope that was being tugged but my arms. I looked up in shock to see that the referee was none other than Alice, who was encouraging both sides to heave and laughing hysterically, banging her hands on a drum. I struggled to get free but couldn’t move. My arms were burning, and I felt as though they were about to be ripped from their sockets. Just when I felt I could hold on no longer, I awoke with a start, my body bathed in sweat, to find that I had been lying on my arm. Downstairs, someone was shouting and banging heavily on the front door.

  Cursing silently, I stumbled downstairs to find that Mrs Padgett had already opened the door to reveal two soldiers.

  “Sorry to disturb you so early, mistress,” said one, “but I have a message from Colonel Booth. He would speak to Master Cheswis. We are to fetch him to The Lamb.”

  Mrs Padgett gave them a scornful look. “You’ll do no such thing,” she growled, making to shut the door in their faces. “Master Cheswis was brought here last night with a head wound, and he needs to rest. It’s only seven o’ clock in the morning. Come back after lunch.”

  “I’m sorry, mistress, but we have our orders,” insisted the soldier.

  “It’s alright, Mrs Padgett,” I said, rubbing my hand across my skull, “I’ve slept well and my head is not as bad as yesterday. I will go with them. Please let them in out of the cold and give them some ale whilst I get ready.”

  Mrs Padgett mumbled something about my job being the death of me and that nobody ever listened to her, but she let the men in nonetheless. Meanwhile, I returned to my chamber and pulled on some breeches, a doublet, my winter cloak, and some boots and grabbed my hat, fingering the area that had saved me the night before.

  The weather had taken a turn for the worse again, and a light snow was falling from leaden skies as I made my way up Pepper Street, past the church, and through the protective earthworks around The Lamb. My two escorts led me into the building and directly into Booth’s drawing room, where I found the Colonel at the breakfast table, spearing a slice of ham. Waving his fork at me by way of greeting, he motioned for me to sit down.

  “How are you faring, Master Cheswis?” he asked, between mouthfuls. “I understand you took a nasty bang to the head yesterday.”

  I studied the Colonel carefully, surprised at the extent of his knowledge. “I’ve been better, but thanks to the quality of my hat, I am still in the land of the living. News travels fast,” I added. “How did you know?”

  “It’s my job to be aware of such things. You are feeling somewhat recovered?”

  “A little. It will take more than a crack on the skull to prevent me doing my duty.”

  “That is certainly my impression of you. You have a persistence that is to be admired.”

  I nodded my thanks. “But yesterday was not a good day for either of us,” I ventured.

  “That is an understatement,” said Booth, grimly. “Not only has it become patently clear that Byron and his hoards of Irishmen have set their sights on removing us from this town, but I have also lost my best man. I have to be grateful that Major Lothian was not killed, but the absence of his particular skills will be a great loss to me.”

  “So how do you view our prospects of defending the town, Colonel?”

  “We have but a thousand men to repel Byron and his troops. Make no mistake, we have motivated, experienced soldiers, but so do they. We cannot hope to engage four thousand men outside of the town. We will need reinforcements from Sir William Brereton if we are to do this and avoid a siege. Hopefully, help is on its way, but, in the meantime, there is little we can do but sit tight. One thing in our favour is that the town is well-fortified, and the people here are largely for Parliament. The townsfolk are also very well-aware of the implications for this place if the town falls. Nantwich has become one of the last bastions of Parliament in this area, and the town will not be treated well if it falls, so there is great motivation to defend the town. We are also nice and warm in our billets. The enemy cannot find it pleasant camping out in the countryside in such weather.”

  “So a reckoning is coming one way or the other?”

  “Aye, we must hope our lads stand fast and defend this place.”

  There were a few moments of silence whilst I took in Booth’s honest assessment of the situation and studied his demeanour. For the first time since I had known him, the Colonel appeared preoccupied, his countenance lined with worry. It was not hard to see why.

  “I presume there was a particular reason you wished to see me this morning?” I said, eventually. “And that this is connected in some way with the body discovered by Lady Norton’s house yesterday?”

  “As I showed a distinct interest in the death of William Tench, I would have thought that would have been self-evident,” said Booth, evenly.

  “The dead man’s name is Ralph Brett,” I said. “He was a mercer and lived in the house in Beam Street where I was attacked yesterday, but I’m sure you know this already.”

  Booth gave a half smile and inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  “It appears that Brett has a military past,” I continued. “He fought in the wars in Europe as a captain under Lord Hamilton, who, as you know, is the King’s personal rep
resentative in Scotland. However, Brett has not been active for a number of years and preferred to stay in Nantwich with his wife and family rather than join with a regiment on either side in this conflict. As both Tench and Brett were found with crimson sashes on their bodies, my initial assumption has been that both men had royalist sympathies, particularly bearing in mind Brett’s aforementioned connections.”

  Booth harrumphed loudly and sat forward in his seat, lowering his voice. “Master Cheswis. I am advised that you are loyal to Parliament’s cause and that you are worthy of trust,” he said. “The time has come when I must put that trust to the test and confide in you to some degree. Can I put my faith in your allegiance?”

  “Of course, Colonel,” I replied, somewhat confused. ”But what do you mean?”

  “The assumption that Ralph Brett’s sympathies lie with the royal cause is incorrect. He may have served with people who now side with the King, but he was most certainly not of their current persuasion. Brett was a loyal parliamentarian.”

  I looked askance at him, wondering where Booth was leading. “How do you know this, sir?” I asked.

  “Because he was working in our interests, protecting information that is vital to the war effort.”

  “You mean he was a spy?”

  “Not exactly, but I would not be exaggerating if I were to tell you that the retention of this information in parliamentary hands has the potential to alter the course of this war.”