The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1)

by D. W. Bradbridge

  “So I understand,” I said. “It will be the second time this year that the people of Middlewich have had to endure such a thing.”

  “Exactly. So I decided not to linger in Middlewich any longer than was necessary. I delivered my message to Sir William and set off back for Barthomley immediately. James must have been held up, for he had not yet arrived by the time I departed.”

  I looked at Simon and realised that he did not yet know about Nuttall.

  “Simon, Nuttall is dead,” I said. “His throat has been cut and he was left inside the church.”

  “Killed by the royalist soldiers?”

  “No, by the same people who killed your friend Brett. He was left with a red scarf around his neck, just like Tench and Brett.”

  Simon paled. “Oh my God, then we need to get back to Nantwich fast.” At this, he disappeared into my parents’ cellar and emerged a couple of minutes later clutching a leather pouch. I looked at the pouch and glared at Simon. Things were getting more complicated by the minute.

  “I think you have some things you need to tell me, brother,” I said, icily.

  Simon sighed. “Daniel, I have been trying to protect you,” he said. “Knowledge can be dangerous and this knowledge especially so. However, I think the time has come where I must involve you. I will explain on the ride back to Nantwich. Your horse is saddled, I believe?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, “but-”

  “Then we must go,” insisted Simon. At that, I was whisked out of the farmhouse, leaving my disbelieving family behind.

  We had been riding in silence for fully fifteen minutes before anything was said on the subject that was tormenting my emotions. I had barely had enough time to say farewell to my family before we were on the road and heading for Nantwich. I had quickly helped George retrieve the remaining clothes and food from the outhouse before mounting my horse and untethering the mount ridden by Gabriel Broomhall, so as to return it to Edward Shenton. Simon had been waiting for me impatiently by the front of the house, a determined look on his face.

  “We must make haste, Daniel,” he had insisted, before trotting off at a keen pace in the direction of Englesea Brook.

  For my part, I was seething inside at the dangers my brother had exposed us to, but I noticed something different in Simon’s face as we rode. His teeth were clenched tightly together as he stared, expressionless, into the middle distance. However, an occasional nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the true state of his emotions. I realised that I was dealing with a determination bordering on obsession.

  “It’s a fine mix-up you have embroiled our family in,” I began, hesitantly. “I think you owe us an explanation.”

  “And you shall have one,” said Simon, calmly. “Where would you like me to start?”

  “To be truthful, I’m tempted to ask you to begin by explaining what’s in that leather pouch you carry, but I have a feeling I should hear the whole story first. Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning. I have a feeling everything starts with Ralph Brett. Am I right?”

  Simon exhaled deeply, and, although the road was empty, he still took the precaution of looking anxiously over his shoulder before answering. “Ralph Brett,” he said, “was a professional soldier and served in Europe for many years. As you know, he returned to Nantwich a few years ago, married and began to live a quiet life running his family business. But, as you are also aware, he had contacts in high places.”

  “You mean the Duke of Hamilton?”

  “Precisely.”

  “But Hamilton is the King’s man in Scotland. Are you telling me Brett is a royalist spy?”

  “No. Exactly the opposite. Let me finish. Ralph is a loyal parliamentarian and the Duke knows that. In September, Ralph was contacted by the Duke and asked to travel to his lordship’s estate in Scotland. As you will be aware, Parliament has signed an agreement with the Covenanters for the latter to provide military support in exchange for money and certain assurances about their Presbyterian faith. This is a disaster for Hamilton, as it is exactly what he was supposed to prevent. He knew that the King would be apoplectic once he became aware of Hamilton’s failings. There have also been suggestions from those that would do mischief that Hamilton’s closeness to the line of succession to the crown might give him good grounds to act treasonably.”

  “And is he a traitor?”

  “The Duke is loyal to his Majesty, but he sees no reason to lose his head over a situation that is largely of the King’s own making.”

  “And that is why Brett was summoned?” I demanded. “To what end?”

  Simon patted the front of his cloak where he had safely secreted the leather pouch he had retrieved from my parents’ cellar. “Ralph was given the contents of this pouch,” he said. “It contains personal letters from his Majesty to the Duke, which reveal details of the King’s business, particularly that in Ireland, which the King would not want to see in parliamentary hands. Ralph was told to hold on to these papers as a safeguard in case the Duke was incarcerated and held to account over the events in Scotland. I understand the Duke arrived in Oxford last week with his brother, and both were promptly arrested. We are now waiting for word from his lordship as to what to do next.”

  I looked in horror at Simon. “God’s teeth, brother, and you saw fit to hide these documents in our house, putting our parents, our brother, and his family at risk?”

  “I know,” said my brother, putting his hands in the air in an attempt to placate me. “I’m sorry about that, but there was no alternative. Let me explain.”

  “I think you’d better. How on earth did you become involved in all this?”

  “You know little of my political activities, Daniel,” said Simon, “and perhaps it’s better that way. James Nuttall and I first got to know Ralph as a result of conversations we held in taverns in Nantwich. After a while, he began to trust us as loyal supporters of the parliamentary cause, so when he was entrusted in this task, he asked both James and I to help him. However, as you know, someone in the King’s employ appears to have found out that we have these letters and is trying his best to find them.”

  “Hence Brett’s murder – and Tench’s too presumably – although I fail to understand the nature of his involvement. Tench was a royalist spy. Why would Brett’s murderer want to silence him? Had he turned his coat perhaps?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Simon, “Ralph knew nothing of Tench – and what is the significance of the crimson scarf? Why tie scarves around the necks of both victims?”

  I thought about this for a moment and turned to Simon. “They certainly allowed you to make a connection between Tench and Brett,” I said, thoughtfully, “and probably also made you act quicker to make the Duke’s papers secure.”

  Simon pulled on his reins to slow his horse down and looked at me with raised eyebrows. The suggestion that the murderer had deliberately used the crimson scarf to connect the two killings, in order to encourage Simon and Nuttall to act rashly, was clearly something that had not occurred to him before; certainly, it had not occurred to me.

  “That’s right,” said Simon. “Once Ralph died, we realised we had to get the papers out of Nantwich, somewhere where they wouldn’t be found. I thought here would be a good place.”

  “But that hasn’t worked.”

  “No. Whoever killed Ralph and James clearly knows my connections with Barthomley. The papers are safer somewhere in Nantwich after all. That’s one reason why we need to get back.”

  I considered Simon’s point a while. “So who else knows about this?” I asked.

  “Elizabeth, of course. But she and I, and now you, are the only people who know the location of the letters. Colonel Booth knows about their existence, though, or, to be more accurate, he knows we have important papers that could be of significant value to the parliamentarian cause but is not aware of their content or where they are being kept. Indeed, the Duke specifically asked for Colonel Booth to be informed about our task and prov
ided us with a letter from him to Booth explaining that we were in possession of important papers and asking for his protection. However, Ralph was under instructions not to pass over the letters until specific instructions to do so had been received from the Duke. That is why James and I have been chasing around the countryside trying to conceal them, instead of the papers being already under Booth’s protection. Now Sir William Brereton also knows. That was the purpose of my ride to Middlewich. The Colonel reckoned his superiors should be aware of the situation should Nantwich fall. If that happens and we hear from Hamilton, we are to find a way to get the letters to Sir William.”

  I hesitated and looked at Simon suspiciously. “What do you mean, ‘we’? Apart from Elizabeth Brett, you are the only person left.”

  “Yes,” said Simon. “That’s why I need your help in this. We need to see Colonel Booth without delay.”

  “Hold on a minute,” I began, indignantly. “What makes you think you can involve me in this?”

  Simon looked at me, narrowing his eyes. “I’m sorry, Daniel,” he said, “but you are involved. You are my brother, you have been investigating Ralph’s murder, and you were attacked in Elizabeth’s house the other night. Even if you weren’t involved, the perpetrator obviously thinks you are.”

  I thought about that for a moment and had to agree with Simon. I told him about the events on my trip to Hankelow, which I had so far refrained from relating. Simon whistled in surprise.

  “That just goes to prove my point,” he said. “So one of these men is dead and the second is this man, Bressy. But there must be a third murderer, surely?”

  “Yes. There is a third person, but we don’t know who that is. Hulse and Bressy remained by the earthworks after the murder, but someone else was heard by Lady Norton running away from the scene. Other soldiers caught sight of the third person too.”

  “Have you the slightest idea who this could be?”

  “No, that is the difficult bit,” I admitted.

  “Could it perhaps be Thomas Maisterson or one of his gentlemen friends, like Roger Wilbraham?” suggested Simon.

  “Possibly,” I admitted, explaining the interest Maisterson had shown in the affair and his keenness to protect the interests of both Randle Church and Lady Norton. “That would certainly go some way towards explaining the connection of William Tench to this whole business.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Simon. “Tench has no direct connection to this as far as I am aware. How he fits into the whole picture is a complete mystery to me. Perhaps he had some relationship with Hulse, Bressy, and the third person. If we can solve this riddle, perhaps we’ll be able to identify who’s responsible.”

  I nodded and silently considered Simon’s words. “But something doesn’t add up,” I said, eventually. “There’s something about Maisterson that makes me think he’s telling the truth. He seems just as concerned at getting to the bottom of this as you are. Perhaps he’s just a good actor, but that’s not my impression. It seems to me that Maisterson’s main aim is making sure that his personal property is safe.”

  “But he did know that Tench was a royalist scout, right?”

  “Yes, I think so, but he wouldn’t discuss that.”

  “Hmm,” said Simon, with a sardonic smile. “I wouldn’t trust Maisterson as far as I can spit.”

  I could understand Simon’s point of view but didn’t say anything. I was confused and plagued by the strange sensation that the solution to the whole affair was plain enough but irritatingly just out of my grasp. I just could not see the wood for trees. There was also one other thing, which I did not understand and which had begun to nag at me.

  “Simon,” I said. “One more thing. Your friend Brett is now dead, so why not just hand the letters over to Colonel Booth and have done with the matter?”

  “I thought about that, Daniel, but I couldn’t do it,” replied Simon, with a shrug of the shoulders. “Ralph’s loyalty was to Hamilton, not particularly to Parliament. So he would have wanted us to follow the Duke’s instructions to the letter, and Ralph was my friend, so why would I act against his wishes? There is also Elizabeth to consider. The Duke had promised a reward to Ralph, so for Elizabeth’s sake, we need to keep to the plan. In any case, the result will be the same, regardless of whether Booth gets the letters now or later.”

  I might have guessed Simon would opt for the more difficult option, but I was in no mood to argue. “So what are we going to do with these letters now?” I enquired.

  “Leave that to me,” said Simon. “I know a suitable place.”

  I didn’t question him any further. I was learning quickly that as far as Simon was concerned, it was better not to know any more than was necessary. The sconce at the end of Hospital Street was already in sight, so I made the decision to let Simon follow his instincts. At least the pouch would be out of my sight, and, if I didn’t know where it was, I would not be in a position to inadvertently betray Simon. I made my way slowly back to Edward Shenton’s stables with the horses, but an uncomfortable feeling was beginning to overwhelm me, the feeling that I was being pulled deeper and deeper against my will into an affair that had become totally out of control.

  22

  Folkingham, Lincolnshire – Friday,

  December 29, 1643

  The parliamentarian commander, Sir Thomas Fairfax, smiled ruefully as he watched his men pull out of the Lincolnshire village of Folkingham. Colours flew, drums rattled, and wagons creaked as two thousand eight hundred horse and five hundred dragoons wearily shook off the fatigue of a long campaign and mobilised themselves for the anticipated march. Spurring his familiar white horse into action, he cantered down the line of troopers and wondered how his men, all of whom had served him with loyalty and distinction over the past twelve months, would be able to cope with the enforced march they were embarking on. The snow lay thick on the local fenland. It was knee-deep in places, and his cavalrymen needed rest, not an extended campaign in the depths of midwinter.

  The troopers, riding two abreast, recognised Sir Thomas’s slight frame, olive complexion, and long dark hair and shouted “Hiya, Black Tom,” by way of greeting, as he made his way to the head of the convoy.

  Fairfax was not an ostentatious man, erring towards modesty, and this was reflected in his attire. He wore normal chest and back plates over his buff coat, his rank betrayed only by the decorated shoulder straps on his armour and the empty brass plume holder fitted to the back of his helmet. He acknowledged the shouts with a wave of the hand.

  The orders Fairfax had received from his committee were to march across the country to aid Sir William Brereton, who had suffered a debilitating defeat in Middlewich at the hands of Lord Byron and his Irish army, losing over two hundred men in the process. Brereton was now holed up in the nearby town of Sandbach, desperately awaiting reinforcements. Fairfax was aware that he would be tasked with helping Brereton relieve a potential siege of strategic importance, although in their haste to urge Fairfax to march forthwith, his superiors had forgotten to tell him exactly where he was supposed to be heading. Fairfax, in a manner true to his determined character, had not waited to be informed of his final destination before departing, but had sent a curt instruction for the information to be sent to him en route.

  Sir Thomas had experienced an eventful year with mixed results militarily, but it had ultimately been a successful one, thanks to the determination and commitment of his men. His spectacular victory at Wakefield in May had been followed by disastrous defeat at Adwalton Moor in June at the hands of the Marquis of Newcastle and a frantic retreat to Hull, during which he had been shot through the wrist. In Hull, though, Sir Thomas and his father Ferdinando were secure, and they had managed to keep Newcastle occupied all through the summer and autumn. Then, in October, Sir Thomas had crossed the Humber and joined forces with a little-known Colonel in the Eastern Association called Cromwell, to win a decisive battle at Winceby, the day before the siege at Hull was raised. Finally, on December 20, Sir Thoma
s had joined with Sir John Meldrum to retake Gainsborough for Parliament.

  How his men had achieved such staggering success against apparently superior opposition, Sir Thomas was at a loss to explain. Perhaps, he reasoned, it was all down to providence.

  Despite their achievements, however, Fairfax’s soldiers now badly needed a rest. They were tired, many were sick, their pay was badly in arrears, and food was short. Worse still, in the middle of winter, his men were living half-naked and in rags. His officers had even gone so far as to write to him to put their concern on paper. New clothing had been a priority, but his request for supplies and, in particular, clothing had fallen on deaf ears, and so Sir Thomas had been forced to use his own credit to buy new clothes for fifteen hundred of his men.

  Never in the best of health himself, Sir Thomas also badly needed to recover from the hard campaign. His impressive and strong-willed wife, Ann, who had sworn to confront any danger her husband faced, had accompanied him for much of the campaign thus far, but now she had been sent to London to recuperate with their five-year-old daughter, Little Moll.

  Sir Thomas would have dearly loved to follow them, but he had now been entrusted with even greater responsibility than before, having been given the power to draw together all regiments of foot in Lancashire and Cheshire to come to Brereton’s aid. Sir Thomas’s plan was to march through Leicester and Stafford, relying on intelligence to decide on the safest route. After combining with Brereton, he was then to head for Manchester, with a view to reinforcing further.

  Fairfax rode towards the head of the column until he spotted a rider carrying his personal cornet, a green and white fringed square of silk displaying a yellow sun on a green background and containing an image of a bound bible. Fairfax signalled to the man riding behind the cornet-bearer, a major by the name of Rokeby, a well-built man with a full beard and a pockmarked nose.