“Thank you for asking,” she replied. “Ralph’s death was a great shock to me. We had been married only five years, and now I am left on my own. I did not expect to be a widow so soon. I have honestly not yet considered how my life will be without him.”
“Your husband made good provision for you, I hope?”
“Fortunately, I will inherit the house and then there is the matter of Ralph’s mercer’s business.”
“What will happen to that?” I asked.
“That will have to be sold. It will make good money, and there will be no shortage of buyers. In fact, they are already starting to emerge from the woodwork. The sale of the business will make me secure, but I will need to use some of the money as capital for a business of my own.” She hesitated. “But it’s too early to talk of this. Ralph is not even buried yet.”
I lowered my head in deference to Mrs Brett’s wishes and changed the subject.
“You have a local accent,” I said. “You are originally from Nantwich, I think?”
“From Wrenbury, I moved here when I was married.”
“Your husband was also a local man, I believe. But he was somewhat older than you?”
“Yes, that’s true. His family have been here for generations. As you know, he left here as a young man to fight in the wars but came back six years ago. He wanted to change his life and swore he would not take up the sword again, so we could forge a better life for ourselves.”
“And he was true to his word?”
“I had no reason to doubt he would ever go back on it.”
“Where did he travel?” I asked, curious to know more about this soldier of fortune, who had traded a life of adventure for married life with this young woman. Why had this man, with all his military experience, not joined the war on one side or the other? Was there more to him than met the eye?
“All over the Kingdom,” replied his widow. “London, Edinburgh. Also to Chester, although not since it was taken by the King.”
“I see. And why, do you suppose, would anyone want to ransack your house? The people who broke in were clearly looking for something. Would this have had something to do with your husband’s past connections, perhaps?”
“I really have no idea, constable. I don’t know what they would be looking for. As I told you, my husband did not confide in me in business matters such as this. Perhaps they found what they were looking for.”
“I think that is unlikely, Mistress Brett,” I said. “What about the red scarf? Did your husband have any connections with any of the leading royalist families in this town? The Maistersons, the Wilbrahams, the Churches?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help,” said Mrs Brett, evenly, her face betraying nothing. I did not believe that Elizabeth Brett was completely devoid of knowledge about her husband’s activities, but I could not prove any of my suspicions and so decided not to press her any further. Instead, I asked her if she minded if I checked on her wellbeing from time to time, especially considering the possibility that she might still be in danger.
“Not at all,” she said. “You are most welcome here.”
“Good,” I replied. “In the meantime, if you see my brother, please tell him I would like a word with him.”
I was just about to leave, but there was something in Elizabeth Brett’s demeanour that stopped me from doing so; a slight hesitation, perhaps, a flicker of concern in her eyes that aroused my suspicions.
“Master Cheswis,” she said. “You seem like a good man, and your concern for your brother is admirable, but believe me, there are some things which are better not to know. I do not know exactly where Simon and James have gone, and that is probably also for the best, but I am aware of the importance of their work. They will return when they are ready, but for their safety and yours, I beg you not to dig too deep into this matter. It may put us all in grave danger.”
And with that, Elizabeth Brett left me standing, open-mouthed, in her hallway and walked into her kitchen, leaving an apologetic Mistress Johnson to show me out.
18
Nantwich, Hankelow and Hunsterson – Friday, December 22, 1643
The next few days did nothing to ease my state of mind, and I lapsed into a mood every bit as grey as the freezing mist which cloaked the Cheshire countryside. The wich house and my constabulary duties kept me busy for much of the day, but my leisure time was spent moping around the house and driving Mrs Padgett to distraction by constantly rearranging the contents of her kitchen, so much so that by the Wednesday evening she was threatening to pack her bags unless I took myself off to a tavern to cure the malaise that had taken hold of me.
The gnawing cold was beginning to prey on the minds of the people of Nantwich too. The snow had stopped again, but there was a certain depression in the demeanour of the townsfolk as they went about their business. Everybody seemed to be moving a little slower than normal, and the streets seemed unusually quiet. There was something else too, an intangible feeling of tension in the air like the calm before a storm. We all knew it was coming, and the colour of that storm was crimson.
The biggest concern for me was the continued absence of Simon. By the Friday morning, neither he nor Nuttall had been seen for four days. Enquiries made at Lady Norton’s house and Simkins’ workshop revealed that neither had reported for work and none of Simon’s friends or acquaintances had seen him anywhere near the town. He had certainly not slept at his home since Sunday night. I even paid a visit to the home of his flame-haired fiancée, Rose Bailey, who was frantic with worry. There had not been so much as a word to her either.
Of course, I was concerned for Simon’s safety, but far more worried about what he and Nuttall were up to. It began to dawn on me after a couple of days that Simon had deliberately avoided telling me about their activities on the Sunday evening, in the knowledge that he and Nuttall would be gone the next day. I felt helpless knowing that there was at least one murderer on the loose, perhaps more.
My mind turned to the enigmatic Elizabeth Brett. What did she know about the activities of her husband and of his protégés? What was it that she would not tell me? Surely it could not be feasible that she knew absolutely nothing of their whereabouts?
Then there was the issue of John Davenport, whose connection with the whole affair continued to perplex me. My friend had returned home to his family and, to all intents and purposes, was resuming his normal life, although he seemed to be displaying the common sense to keep his head low. A visit to Davenport’s to check up on his family’s welfare had revealed nothing, although Edward Yardley had seen me coming and berated me on the street for not putting Davenport on trial both for fraud and for the murder of Tench. Knowing the history of antipathy between Yardley and Davenport, I was not particularly surprised by this. What was odd, though, given Yardley’s stance, was the fact that the Rulers of Walling had made no move at all to approach Davenport about his misdemeanours. Perhaps, with Byron’s men beginning to grow in numbers around the town, they, like everyone else in Nantwich, had more on their minds to deal with than such trivial matters.
And finally, there was the issue of Alice. There was always Alice. I had seen her around the town on a couple of occasions since Sunday, and each time she had greeted me with the sweet smile I had remembered from my youth, designed, it seemed, to twist my heart in knots. The second time I saw her she revealed that her husband had left Nantwich on business again, although she didn’t reveal where. He would be back in a few days, she said.
Although I had tried hard not to reveal my continuing feelings for Alice to those I knew well, I had failed miserably. Alexander and Mrs Padgett in particular had noticed and were both of the opinion that Alice’s continued presence did not bode well for me. I brushed this away with a nonchalant wave, of course, but one day I came back home to lunch to find the two of them deep in conversation in my hall. They pretended they were talking about something else, but I knew this was not the case. I was forced to grab my food in silence and to maintain a haughty dista
nce from the two of them. My relationship with Alice was none of their business.
The one ray of light on the horizon was that Skinner had started to show a little more interest in his work since his success on the shooting range. His hangdog, surly mood seemed to have disappeared and he busied himself cheerfully with our cheese customers and down at the wich house. It came to something when I preferred the company of my apprentice to that of my best friend and housekeeper.
It was, therefore, a welcome change on Friday morning to be faced with the prospect of a cart ride to collect cheese for the market and for the garrison’s quartermaster. I rose early to ready my horse, a bay gelding called Goodwyn. I harnessed him to the cart to be driven by Skinner and by 9 o’clock we were heading across the river at Shrewbridge and heading down the road towards Audlem.
Both Skinner and I had armed ourselves with our newly-acquired muskets and were kitted out with bandoliers, waist belts with bullets and flasks of priming powder. As promised, Colonel Booth had provided us with some protection in the form of two dragoons, one a sergeant, a taciturn Mancunian called Prescott, and the other a younger man in his twenties called Cowper.
My intention was to ride a circular route to visit farms in the villages of Hatherton, Hankelow, Hunsterson, and Wybunbury. Although the King’s forces had robbed and plundered Wrenbury, Stoke, Hurleston, and the like, they had stayed on the west side of the Weaver and our hope was that they might remain there. It was still a risk but much safer than visiting farmers on the other side of the river, several of whose farms had already been plundered by marauding bands of royalists.
The frozen ground and relatively thin layer of snow meant that it was easy to drive the cart along the narrow road leading towards the village of Audlem, which, in times of thaw after so much snow, would have otherwise been little more than a quagmire. From Nantwich, the normally muddy track travels in a south-easterly direction through farming land, holding a line about a quarter of a mile from the river until, after four miles or so, it reaches the hamlet of Hatherton. From there, the road veers to the right, heading south-west into Hankelow and eventually into Audlem. We made good time on the frozen surface, the two dragoons riding by the side of the cart, their swords clinking at their sides. Cowper turned out to be a jolly companion, entertaining us with a selection of bawdy songs along the way, quite a relief from the heavy mixture of psalms and anti-episcopal rants I was used to hearing from the soldiers of the garrison. Skinner, meanwhile, sat bright-eyed at the front of the cart with his musket by his side.
“You are a different person doing this kind of work,” I observed, as we rode towards the first farm on our list.
“Aye, sir,” he replied. “Don’t think me ungrateful an’ all that, Master Cheswis. I’m thankful for the opportunity you gave me, but I’m an apprentice salt worker because I need to be. I much prefer soldiering, if the truth be told.”
“I can see that,” I said. “One thing’s for certain. There’s no shortage of opportunity in that line of work at times like these.”
As we travelled southwards, it became clear that word had already travelled widely regarding the plundering that had taken place on the other side of the river, so it did not prove difficult to persuade farmers to sell their produce to us. It was better to sell the cheese to us at wholesale prices than have it stolen by the King’s forces. By the time we were ready to leave our second farm of the day, near Hankelow, the cart was almost half full.
While we were loading, a rider cantered into the farmyard and drew up alongside us.
“No need for alarm,” said the farmer to the two dragoons, who were ready to draw their weapons. “It’s my brother, come from Audlem.” The look on the brother’s face, however, told a different story.
“I bring bad tidings,” he said, breathlessly. “The cavaliers have crossed the bridge in the village and are plundering the houses and nearby farms. John Bithell’s farm at Buerton has already been raided, and his cattle and horses have been stolen. It looks like they are heading for Nantwich. I suggest you lock up your livestock. And you, sir,” he added, addressing me, “you should make haste back to Nantwich. A cartload of cheese would make fine plunder for a troop of hungry Irishmen.”
I thanked the farmer and his brother, and we finished loading the cart as quickly as we could. It was clear that we needed to head back home with all possible speed. However, we decided to return via our originally planned route through the back lanes on the assumption that the royalists were more likely to prefer the main route to Nantwich. Clearly, if they could cross the river at Audlem, they could cross it again at Shrewbridge. Just before we reached Hatherton, therefore, we branched off to the right and headed off down one of the small lanes to the hamlet of Hunsterson, where we planned to visit one last farm, in order to make sure we returned to Nantwich with a fully-laden cart.
The farmhouse in question was just north of Hunsterson, a couple of hundred yards down a narrow track, which branched off the lane to Heathfield and Walgherton. Bordering the track on one side was Chapel Wood, an area of thick woodland containing a small lake known as Ridley’s Pool. There were trees lining the other side of the track too, though not as thick. Eventually, the path opened up into a clearing where the farm stood, surrounded by fields to the south and east.
We did not linger at the farm, staying only long enough to buy the cheese we needed and to take some brief refreshment before heading off again towards the Hunsterson road. Prescott was at the head of our convoy, with Cowper on the left and myself sat next to Skinner on the right-hand side of the cart. I remember feeling a sense of relief that we could now concentrate on making our way back to the safety of Nantwich, but just as we reached the trees, things started to happen very quickly.
Firstly, I heard two sharp cracks from somewhere up ahead and a dull thud from the other side of the cart. I glanced to my left just in time to see Cowper’s neck explode in a mass of red, his song halted in mid-verse. The dragoon did not make a sound but fell first backwards and then sideways from his horse, landing in a crumpled heap on the ground. Time stood still for a second as I took in the horror of what had just happened. At first, it seemed that the second shot has missed, but then the horse, Goodwyn, suddenly stumbled and sank to his knees, his weight tipping the cart over. The cheeses we had bought landed on the ground with a thump, followed by Skinner, who banged his head on a stone by the roadside and remained motionless in the snow. Looking ahead, I saw two people dive back quickly into the woods, one either side of the road. I grabbed my musket and fired a shot in their direction but missed, the musket ball burying itself in a tree.
“Get under cover, quickly, before they reload,” yelled Prescott. Dismounting rapidly, we tied the horses to the upturned cart and dived for cover. I took another look across to where the shots had come from and a musket ball flew over my head.
“Keep your head down and reload your musket,” shouted Prescott. “One of them’s over there,” he said, pointing to where the shot had come from. “Where the fuck’s the other one?”
At that moment, a second bang reverberated from the midst of the woods, and a musket ball caught Prescott in the shoulder. I realised with alarm that the second man had doubled back through the undergrowth, re-emerging to Prescott’s right. With a shout, the enemy soldier charged directly at Sergeant Prescott and kicked his musket firmly out of reach. Prescott fell back with a groan, holding his shoulder, blood seeping from between his fingers. I realised I had no time to finish reloading my musket, so I reached for my dagger instead. It was too late. My assailant knocked the weapon away with his musket butt and drew a pistol, which he pointed at my head. I looked into the soldier’s face and realised with surprise and horror that, far from the royalist soldier I had been expecting, I was looking at the features of Nathaniel Hulse. With resignation, I laid back, closed my eyes and waited for the release that death would bring.
19
Barthomley, Cheshire – Saturday,
December 23, 16
43
Major John Connaught stood on the road outside the village of Barthomley and surveyed the scene before him. It was late afternoon and dusk was fast approaching. Two hundred yards away, he could see the snow-covered roofs of the small cluster of thatched cottages that were crowded closely around the red sandstone tower of St Bertoline’s church. In front of the buildings, lined across the road, was a makeshift barricade made of barrels, bales, fencing – anything that could be gathered together. Behind it stood twenty men, some with muskets, others with pikes and other weaponry. The muskets were pointed towards Connaught and the band of men who accompanied him.
Connaught was an Ulsterman bent on revenge. He fought alongside the royalists, but not for the King. He was fighting for his own people, whose lands in the North of Ireland had been captured and ravaged by the Presbyterian covenanter leader Robert Monro. Originally part of a group of forces commissioned by the Earl of Antrim to resist Monro, Connaught now led a company of his own countrymen, seconded to the command of Colonel Ralph Sneyd, the Staffordshire landowner. His orders were to march to Crewe Hall and take the small garrison there. Since leaving Chester, his company had cut a swathe of terror through Cheshire, burning, looting, and plundering its way through Audlem, Hankelow, Hatherton, Wybunbury, and Weston, before emerging on the road to Barthomley.
Connaught and his men had hitherto met with little resistance, so they were surprised to see the barricades outside Barthomley, especially as there were fields either side of the road, which would make it impossible for defenders to keep the advancing Irishmen out.
The Major scratched his head and turned to one of his lieutenants. “What do you make of this, Curran?” he asked.
The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1) Page 19